The Big Book of HC Prompts
by Haelia
Summary: What it says on the tin. Fills for prompts I find online and prompts people give me. Hurt/comfort, some angst. All characters. NO romance, NO Johnlock, ALL H/C one-shots. Got a hurt/comfort prompt? Send it my way and I'll write a one-shot. Rating for safety.
1. Too Much

**Note**: I combined two prompts for this first story.

**Characters: **Sherlock & John

**POV: **John

**Prompt 1: ****Sherlock passes out from pushing himself too hard for a case. **

**Prompt 2: ****Sherlock once lost a case. He caught the murderer, but not before someone else died, and he regrets that terribly.**

**Submitted by:** Arowen13

* * *

><p>"This kind of wound doesn't happen in self-defence. It's deep, deliberate… but the knife couldn't have been more than four inches long, which means the attacker would have had to get in close. He knew whomever killed him - knew him intimately. Look at his hands, Lestrade. Those aren't defensive wounds, they're scrapes from when he fell to the pavement."<p>

John isn't really listening as Sherlock paints a lurid murder scene on a cool September afternoon. He's standing beside him as they consult with Lestrade over a conference table covered in photographs and notes. Sherlock is rehashing, starting again from the beginning to try to find whatever it is he's missed. They've been on this case for ages with no leads and barely anything to go on. John doesn't even see the gruesome details in the photographs anymore, doesn't process them. They've become background noise at this point; just a sad, unavoidable fact of the case.

Normally, crimes get solved in record time with Sherlock on the case. This time, though, it's been four weeks and two dead ends and they are hardly closer to the solution than they were a month ago. Sometimes, John thinks they might even be going backwards instead of forwards.

But it isn't the case John is worried about. Not today, not now; not when he can see, even under the bleaching fluorescents of New Scotland Yard, that his flatmate's strength is waning. For weeks now, John's pleas to eat, drink, and sleep have only been heeded to the barest extent. Sherlock obeys only when he has no other choice. The stress of the case isn't helping, either. This murderer has eluded Sherlock for far too long, and that bothers him. _Bother_ is too mild a word, though, John knows. It's more than that. Sherlock finds it deplorable, disgusting… unthinkable, that his great mind can't find a killer who was careless enough to leave his one and only victim out in broad daylight. The challenge was refreshing at first, John knows, but now it's gone on too long and Sherlock is sick of playing. He plays to win, after all. Right now, he's not winning.

"We've interviewed everyone associated with the victim," Lestrade is saying now, shaking his head. "He can't have known the killer, unless it was a big secret."

"What about Michael Camden?" Sherlock presses. "He ran when we questioned him. Remember?" He looks to John for support.

John nods, recalling with clarity the rooftop jaunt in Southwark.

"You said he ran because of the warrant out for his arrest," says Greg. "He didn't know anything when we questioned him, anyway. Now he's serving time for robbery."

"I need to speak to him again."

Lestrade's pager goes off and he pulls it off his belt to glance at the display. He heaves a sigh. "I've gotta go. I'll arrange an interview with Camden." He strides to the door and holds it open for the other two, waving them through. "Don't do anything without me, though, Sherlock. The press are watching this one like hawks."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but his lack of argument passes for agreement, and John follows him out.

221B is dim and quiet and warm when they return some twenty minutes later. Mrs. Hudson comes up bearing a tray loaded with tea, sandwiches, and biscuits just after they boys arrive home. "Hungry?" she chirps cheerily.

"Yes," John says eagerly.

At the same time, Sherlock says, "No."

Mrs. Hudson tut-tuts and bustles out, and John gives his flatmate a reproving look. "Sherlock, you need to eat," he says for what feels like the millionth time in two weeks.

"And suppose someone else dies while we're eating biscuits," the detective snaps with unwarranted aggression. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and turns his back to John, staring at the mess of notes and photographs tacked to the wall. "Let your sentimentality deal with _that_."

* * *

><p>The next day is the same. They're visiting the crime scene again. Sherlock is restless, agitated. They've combed the scene half a dozen times already. There's nothing new here and he knows it, but lives are at stake and more importantly - the game is on and Sherlock is losing it.<p>

John can smell rain as his flatmate walks the perimeter of the area. The body was found in a park. That section of the park is still roped off from the general public, at Sherlock's request, though certainly some kids have sneaked in a few times for a laugh.

"If he thinks he's gotten away with it, he may kill again," Sherlock says as he comes to a stop in front of the park bench where the body had been posed.

"On the other hand, he may not," says John, irritably.

Audibly, Sherlock exhales. He doesn't say anything. He's swaying.

John grabs him under the arm and hauls him away. His lack of argument is more worrying than anything else.

* * *

><p>Another day, Sherlock is staring at a computer at the Yard when his eyes go glassy. John is poring over a new case file that may or may not be linked to their murderer, but he's doing it in spurts and jags because his eyes are continually drawn to his flatmate, who is pale and silent and stony - more so than usual.<p>

Without warning, Sherlock sighs and slumps and cradles his head in his hands.

"Sherlock?"

The detective doesn't answer.

"Sherlock," John says again, more insistently. He reaches across the table and pokes an arm.

"I'm fine."

"Take a break."

"I'm _fine_." His phone rings. It's sitting on a table across the room. "Get that."

* * *

><p>They're at home when it finally happens, two days later. John has been expecting it for some time, but that doesn't make it any less alarming in the moment.<p>

Sherlock is carrying a thick reference book in from his bedroom, but suddenly drops it with a resounding _thump_ onto the floor. John looks up in time to see him list to one side and grab the back of a chair for support. "Sherlock!"

The detective's voice is faint and he's frowning. "John…" His knees buckle and the hand that was holding him up goes slack.

John leaps to his feet and crosses the room in two strides, but Sherlock is on the floor before he can get there. The sound of his limp body hitting the hardwood makes John's stomach churn uncomfortably, and he cringes as he drops to his knees beside the detective. Sherlock is lying on his back in a heap, his face partially obscured by a shock of dark curls. John's fingers immediately dig for a pulse in his throat, though he knows full well that Sherlock is fine; but the strong, steady beat beneath his fingertips calms him. He pushes his flatmate onto his side, flicks open the top two buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and yanks his own jumper off over his head, folding it under Sherlock's head. By the time he does this, Sherlock's eyes have opened, grey-green scanning John from folded knees up until they find his face.

"Sherlock?" John says softly, mindful of any headache that may be developing, from the crash to the floor or otherwise.

"John?"

"You're okay. Can you sit up?"

Sherlock doesn't speak, but appears to be considering this. After a few moments, he blinks fiercely and begins pushing himself upright. John helps him sit up with a hand at his back, watching for the colour to drain from his face and signal that he's going to pass out again. As expected, Sherlock does look a little white once he's straightened up, and he groans and presses a hand to the side of his head.

John immediately pushes Sherlock forward with a guiding hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to put his head between his knees. "You're alright," he repeats. "Breathe."

He does, slowly and deeply through parted lips, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Leaving him to it, John climbs to his feet and goes to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. Sherlock will probably balk, he knows, at being babied, but quite frankly, John has had more than enough of this. He'll have Lestrade dump him off the case if he has to. Steeling himself, John returns to where his flatmate is still sitting on the floor, cross-legged now with his back slightly bent as he stares at his ankles. John squats down beside him and holds out the water glass.

Something in Sherlock's throat thrums deeply - gratefully? - and he accepts the glass, sipping cautiously.

"How are you feeling?" John risks asking. He ducks his head a little to peer into his patient's eyes.

Sherlock draws back a little from the scrutiny, frowning openly back at John. At first he doesn't answer and drinks water instead, but after a moment he sets the glass down and scrubs a hand across his forehead. "I'm fine."

"Don't say that," John snaps. "You haven't slept in days. You barely eat enough to function. You haven't said two words that don't have to do with the case in I-don't-know-how-long. This has to stop."

"You _know_ I don't do those things when I'm working."

"And I know it's worse this time. What I don't know is why. But it doesn't matter. Sherlock, I draw the line when you knock yourself out on my living room floor."

Sherlock blinks owlishly back at him, possibly cowed by the reprimand and definitely surprised by it. He is usually the one giving orders around here.

John is acutely aware of the fact that he has never spoken to Sherlock in this tone of voice before, not like this. Perhaps he's shouted at him once or twice about minding his Ps and Qs around other people, but nothing like this. His tone during this conversation has been sharp and commanding - his 'Captain Watson voice' is what Lestrade has called it in the past. Usually reserved for criminals and uncooperative witnesses, and once for getting in and out of Baskerville. This is different. This is personal, intimate. His stony expression doesn't slip as he asks, "Can you stand?"

The detective finishes his water and doesn't answer. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet under his own power, only listing slightly when he's gotten himself to his full height. He shakes off the hand John extends and steadies himself instead on the chairback. "The longer we delay, the more of a threat this man poses to everyone around him."

"Scotland Yard is on the case. You need to _sleep_, Sherlock, the work can wait for eight hours while you do that. Hell, rest might even help you solve the case, you know. Sleep deprivation seriously inhibits brain function."

"Every minute counts, John," replies Sherlock, shaking his head, even though he is holding onto the chairback with two white-knuckled hands now. "At any moment - "

John cuts him off. "Since when do you care about human life?" he cries before he can stop himself. "As long as you solve the case, you win, you can't take a night off to - "

"Since Natalia Novak."

"What?"

"Natalia Novak," Sherlock says on a sigh. Defeated, he pulls the chair out and drops down into it. He sets the water glass down on the table and studies his reflection.

"Who's Natalia Novak?" John demands curtly.

"It was a long time ago. Before you. It was… I lost. Sort of." Sherlock's face contorts uncomfortably for half a second. "I solved the case, but not quickly enough. Adrian Miller killed an American tourist by the name of Emily Duncan, a year after I started consulting with the Yard. He was clever about it, though. He cleaned up after himself. There wasn't much DNA evidence at all, and what was there wasn't in the database because he didn't have a criminal record and had never been bonded or fingerprinted. He essentially disappeared after he killed her. Hence why Lestrade needed me on the case. I took too long tracking Miller down, and less than a day before I found him, he killed another tourist called Natalia Novak. If I had just gotten to him a few hours sooner, I could have prevented that."

Now it is John's turn to be cowed by his flatmate's words. He is ashamed of himself - ashamed that it took him so long to ask, and ashamed of the way in which he eventually did. He releases a breath he didn't realise he's been holding and sits down heavily in an adjacent chair. "Christ. How long between the killings?"

"Six weeks."

That answer isn't surprising. Sherlock has had his head in a case from five years ago all this time - as far as he was concerned, he had a six-week window at maximum to find a suspect. No wonder his condition has spiralled out of control as time went by, especially in the last few days. It's been almost five weeks now; the timer is running out of sand. "I'm sorry," John manages.

Sherlock shrugs.

They sit in silence for a few moments, John watching Sherlock and Sherlock watching his water glass. Finally, John scrapes together his resolve and clears his throat. "Still - you need rest, and food, and water, for God's sake. I know you don't do those things while you're working," John says quickly before Sherlock can interrupt, "but when a case drags on this long, you have to."

For a long time, Sherlock doesn't answer. He's scowling at his water glass now, no doubt irritated with his transport for having needs that interfere with his all-important work. But finally he says, in a small voice, "It would seem so."

John thinks that this is agreeable enough. Then something else occurs to him. "Listen, um… you know it wasn't your fault, right?"

"What?"

"Natalia Novak."

Sherlock's face goes through several changes very quickly. John thinks one of them is surprise, another relief, but the rest are unreadable. He settles, in the end, on feigned indignance. "Don't be an idiot, John."

_Okay_, John thinks to himself, but he decides not to say anything. He watches Sherlock stand up, the chair scraping back as he does. He tenses. "Where are you going?"

"Bed," the detective replies.

John is surprised - pleasantly so - but he doesn't push his luck by questioning it. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."


	2. Physician, Heal Thyself

**Characters: **Sherlock & John

**POV: **Alternating

**Prompt: ****Do doctors really make the worst patients? Sherlock tries to take care of John when he's suddenly taken ill from caring for a sick child.**

**Submitted by: **Arowen 13

* * *

><p>John wakes at six o'clock on the dot and feels much too tired for someone who just got a full night's rest. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and thinks that on the other hand, maybe he feels just the appropriate amount of tired for someone who hasn't had a day off in eight bloody months. Between Sherlock and his real job, there's never a dull moment.<p>

His joints pop as he stretches, reminding him that he's not twenty anymore, not even thirty anymore. He shrugs his dressing gown on over his pyjamas and pads downstairs.

Their flat is bathed in warm morning light. It pours in through the tall windows facing the street and illuminates the spread of experiments covering the breakfast table, refracted in a tall Erlenmeyer flask filled with some sort of blue-green liquid. It's all too bright and sparkly and it gives John a headache. He walks over and draws the drapes.

Sherlock isn't up yet - won't be for another hour at least, as they're in between cases - and John more or less has the flat to himself. He basks in the silence and moves quietly to the kitchen to put on coffee and butter some toast. Once that's all arranged, he goes to the sofa and settles himself with his mug and his breakfast and the newspaper that is waiting for him on the coffee table.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom. Shockingly, he's dressed already - Dolce & Gabbana small-collar button up, tailored slacks, obviously going somewhere. John notes that he has a suit jacket hanging over his arm and deduces that where he's going is work. Private client, surely, as he'd never get up this early for Lestrade, unless it was urgent, and there hasn't been anything in the paper. John is proud of himself for putting all this together. He asks anyway, "Where are you going?"

Sherlock answers predictably, "Client." Then he adds, unpredictably, "Agoraphobe," as he slips his phone into his pocket and puts on his jacket and coat.

Quickly, John folds the newspaper and gets to his feet. "Let me just get dressed."

"No." Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. "You're not coming."

"What? Why?"

"You're ill."

"I'm - what? No, I'm not. Just hang on a tick, I'll come with you." John makes to round the coffee table and dash upstairs, but Sherlock places himself in front of him.

"You're flushed and sweating and there are dark circles around your eyes, even though you got approximately seven-point-six hours of sleep last night. You haven't dressed or showered yet, not because you just felt like being lazy, but because you didn't have the energy. You thought the coffee might help, but it didn't, so you've just been sitting here quietly reading the paper instead of taking your usual shower at eight-fifteen. And the headache is fairly obvious, considering the darkness of the flat. You're coming down with a virus, John, and I won't have you contaminating my clients or evidence." Sherlock knots his scarf around his throat with an air of finality and steps toward the door. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Wait - Sherlock - dammit!" John stands in the doorway and watches helplessly as his flatmate hurries down the stairs and out into the street. "I'm not sick!" he calls as the door slams.

* * *

><p>Sometime around noon, Sherlock is in a cab on his way home, staring at the unanswered text he sent to John over an hour ago. Well, texts, to be precise. The first one said, <em>What colour is the beaver liver in the refrigerator?<em> and that one went out at ten AM. The second one said, _Headed home_ and was sent at eleven. John hasn't answered either of them, which is strange, because John always answers, even when it has to do with beaver livers.

Sherlock arrives at 221, pays the driver, and climbs the seventeen stairs to his flat. He is mildly curious as to what ailment has incapacitated John past the point of answering texts, and just slightly hopeful that he will be able to conduct an experiment on him before his condition becomes emergent. Needless to say, he's surprised when he steps through the threshold and sees John, fully dressed, standing in the middle of the living room talking on the phone.

"Yeah, okay," John says into the phone as Sherlock hangs up his coat and scarf. "Got it. Brilliant. Yes, thank you. Thank you. Right, bye then."

"Cancelling all your appointments for tomorrow," Sherlock observes as he kicks the door shut and unbuttons his suit jacket.

John blinks. "How…?"

"Two thank you's," says the detective, by way of explanation. He can tell that it's lost on John, and he doesn't try to help him catch up. He angles an elegant dark brow upward and glides past his flatmate toward the table, simultaneously producing a thick file from inside his jacket. "How are you feeling, then?" he asks with limited interest. He already has a pretty good idea.

"Fine," John insists. "I don't know why you're so convinced I'm coming down with something."

God, John can be so slow sometimes. It's so very tedious. "I already told you how I _know_," he states. "Now you've confirmed my suspicions by calling out of work tomorrow."

"Does it occur to you that perhaps I just wanted a bloody day off? I've been working seven days a week for months, between you and the surgery - I need a break!"

"I imagine you'll get one, of a sort."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock decides that now is a good time to start ignoring John.

* * *

><p>John feels like death warmed over. An unpleasant and telling ache has settled into his back, he spent some time vomiting while Sherlock was gone, and he feels hot and cold by turns. But he sure as hell isn't going to let on that he's ill. He's going to quietly ride this out, because Sherlock bloody Holmes doesn't get to be right every single time. So he's going to put on a stoic face, he's going to let Sherlock exclude him from this newest case, and he's going to get through this without so much as a whimper. And when it's over, he'll gloat about how Sherlock was wrong and he was never ill, and he won't feel bad for lying because he'll have earned it.<p>

Luckily, his flatmate isn't making it difficult. Sherlock is now absorbed in whatever he's got in glass slides under the microscope and pretending John doesn't exist, so that makes it easy for John to walk away and go pretend to read a book.

John carries on pretending to read his book for a few hours, then when he realises that the words are swimming before his eyes, he turns on the telly and stretches out on the sofa, casual as you like. But even that he's not really seeing, because his body is screaming for rest, and the unpleasant coil of nausea is curling around his belly again. He looks at the clock. It's only four in the afternoon. He has to make it to ten, at least, to be convincing. Steeling himself for a difficult six hours, he takes the TV remote in hand and tells himself that this will all be worth it in the end.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is surprised that John has held out for this long. He is more stubborn than Sherlock gave him credit for. The detective makes a note of this.<p>

It's about six in the evening. Mrs. Hudson brought up a baked hen a little while ago to share with the boys, but John only nibbled at his portion. He's pretending to watch television, but Sherlock knows he's not really paying attention. He keeps squirming, which speaks to his physical discomfort - body aches, probably, to go along with the nausea. His eyes are unfocussed and once or twice he's nodded off a little. Sherlock feels quite proud of himself. He's never been adept at deducing medical facts - that's John's area. But it seems all his time spent observing John has paid off.

Still, despite all this, John is doing a bang-up job of hiding his condition. Sherlock has the sense that the soldier in him hasn't forgotten his military bearing, and that he's actually even worse off than he seems. But why hide it? On this point, Sherlock doesn't know. What he does know is that two can play this game.

He waits until seven, and then stands up abruptly, pocketing his phone and scooping his suit jacket up off a nearby chair. "Come on, John," he says crisply. "We need to track down a Turkish carpenter."

John scowls at him from the sofa. The light of the telly plays over his face in harsh angles. "I thought I wasn't allowed," he grates.

"That was when I thought you were ill," the detective points out as he slips into his coat. "But you clearly aren't, after all. You haven't been vomiting, and you've been eating and drinking normally… and watching your rubbish television programmes. By all counts, you're perfectly healthy, and I need a second set of eyes on this case."

"Are you admitting you were wrong?"

Sherlock tosses John his coat. "I'm _admitting_ that I need your help, or someone might die." That isn't precisely true. The case is that of a missing person that the police have taken less than seriously up to this point, but Sherlock is reasonably certain that the girl is with her Internet boyfriend in Aberdeen. He is also reasonably certain that John will think up some excuse not to come unless he thinks that his being there will save a life, so Sherlock stretches the truth. Though, technically, anyone might die at any time, so he isn't _really_ lying.

And true to form, John sighs heavily and puts on his coat.

* * *

><p>John knows that he is flagging. He can sense his own pyrexia mounting. The nausea is pretty insistent, too, and he's not sure that chicken was such a good idea. To make it all worse, his head started pounding some time ago and hasn't stopped.<p>

And now they're on their way to… to do something, John isn't even sure what anymore. Something to do with a Turkish carpenter and a missing teenager and… that's all he can remember.

They get out of the cab on the other side of Hyde Park, and John pulls his coat more tightly around himself. "The Turkish carpenter lives in Kensington?"

"No, his sister-in-law does. Weren't you paying attention when I explained all this in the taxi?" Sherlock's tone is impatient.

John makes a valiant attempt at listening as Sherlock launches into another long-winded explanation about trace evidence and the honesty of the Turkish people as a whole, but the sheer effort causes him to break out in a cold sweat from head to toe, so he abandons it and instead settles for interjecting neutral listening noises whenever the detective pauses for breath. Which, as it turns out, doesn't happen very often, and that suits John just fine.

All the while, they continue walking. And walking, and walking. Past shops and tourists and nannies pushing prams and families all bundled up against the evening chill. After some time, Sherlock leads John left into a quieter residential street, and John is completely disoriented by this point.

Without warning, Sherlock is pushing John back against a brick wall, and ducking his head to peer into his eyes, and pressing an insistent hand into his good shoulder. "Are you alright?" the detective is demanding, and the tone of his voice implies that he's asked it once or twice already with no answer.

John realises that his breaths are ragged and wheezy and he's exhausted, so bloody exhausted that he can hardly see straight, and that headache has become an EF-5 tornado ripping his brain to shreds and splattering it across the insides of his skull. Suddenly, this whole pretending not to be sick thing feels very stupid. "No," he rasps, giving in at last. "No, Sherlock, I'm not bloody alright, I'm not and you know damn well… get off me." He shakes him off and claws his coat open, suddenly hot. Then his knees are giving and he's sliding down the wall to sit on the pavement. He can feel the cold of the concrete through his trousers.

"I tried to tell you," Sherlock says, kneeling in front of him.

"Get a cab," John growls irritably.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is unprepared for how much walking is necessary to wear John out. He holds up surprisingly well until they turn down Montpelier Street, and then his body seems to give up all at once. His breathing becomes labored and he starts listing to the side, and Sherlock grabs him by the arm and asks if he's okay, but John doesn't seem to hear. That's when he stops him, pushes him against the wall of a nearby flat, and demands an answer. Finally, finally, John admits defeat.<p>

Sherlock is also unprepared for how sick John really is. In the cab, he shivers incessantly and makes small, half-stifled sounds of discomfort every time the car lurches over a bump in the road. Even in the fading evening light, his pallor is unmistakable. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt and thinks he should have just let John have his way instead of dragging him out into the cold. But he had to prove a point, and now that John had admitted that he was unwell, he could concentrate on getting better, and Sherlock could help.

Wait, could he? What was involved in such a task? Sherlock frowns into the middle distance and wracks his brain. John has been sick before, of course… hasn't he? Well… maybe? He can't remember now. If he knew about a time that John was ill, he's deleted it. But he wouldn't delete something so interesting and relevant, so maybe John really hasn't ever been ill in all the time Sherlock has known him. This makes a certain amount of sense, Sherlock realises. Having been exposed to probably every common illness under the sun, John has undoubtedly built up an immune resistance to most everyday diseases. Does that mean this isn't an everyday disease?

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asks as the cab pulls up to their flat. He pays the driver out of John's wallet and meets his flatmate round the other side of the car.

John looks less than pleased by Sherlock's scrutiny. "What?"

"What's wrong with you?" he asks again. He leaves out the impatience this time.

"Sherlock!" John shakes his head and pushes past the detective.

Sherlock follows him up the stairs and unlocks the door, since John's hands are shaking so badly. "No, really - you're a doctor. Make a diagnosis."

"Why? So you can run an experiment?"

As tempting as that was… "No. So I can help."

John barks hoarsely. "Ha. Right." He stumbles inside and goes straight to the sofa and collapses, coat and shoes and all.

Sherlock has never taken much time to study medicine lately. He has John for that, most of the time. "Could it be flu?"

The doctor groans and covers his eyes with his arm. "It's a stomach bug, Sherlock, probably norovirus. There were two cases in the surgery this week."

"What do you need?"

"I need you to shut up."

Sherlock hangs up his coat and scarf and toes off his shoes. He waits.

John must eventually sense that he's still standing there, because after a time he peeks out from under his arm and says, "_What_, Sherlock?"

"What do you need?" Sherlock says again.

"Seriously?"

Sherlock doesn't bother replying.

Laboriously, John sighs. "Fluids. Warmth. Rest. For you not to be crowing about how you were right."

Swiftly, Sherlock strides to the kitchen, fills a glass with water, and returns to the sitting room, where he pushes the glass into John's limp hand. John accepts it with some amount of surprise and sits up to sip.

"And you need to be washing your hands a lot," John adds. "Norovirus is extremely contagious. Actually, you'll be very lucky if you don't have it already."

Clearly, John hasn't heard that Sherlock never gets sick. "What else?" he asks.

"Nothing," John replies. But then he amends, "Sick bucket." He sets the water glass down, kicks off his shoes, and hunkers down into the sofa cushions. His eyes are closed. His breathing slows, and after just a few minutes he starts to snore.

Being right hasn't been nearly as fun as it should have been, Sherlock reflects. It's usually a lot more satisfying than this. Now John's just sleeping and that's boring. The detective looks around for John's kit. He knows his flatmate keeps a nice big bag of doctorly equipment in the flat, and he wonders if there is something in it that might help John get better so that they can get on with things.

* * *

><p>John drifts in and out of sleep for the best part of the night. He dreams that Sherlock's there the whole time. He dreams that he fetches water and blankets and cool cloths, but he has to be told to do these things because he hasn't got a damn clue how to take care of anyone. John realises at some point that that's not a dream. Sherlock's really there, and he really does need to be told how to handle a sick person. John tries to remember to tell him to wash his hands.<p>

Sometime around four AM, John falls into a more sound sleep. He can hear the violin being played from somewhere distantly.

Around nine, he can sense rather than see the sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. It's quiet in the flat, and John notes with some relief that his headache is a lot better and the nausea not quite so bad. But his chest feels strange. Cold and heavy. He blinks his eyes open.

Sherlock is kneeling next to the sofa, studying him intently, with the plugs of John's stethoscope fitted into his ears. The cold heaviness on John's chest is the bell of the instrument, which Sherlock is pressing lightly against his chest.

"What are you doing?" asks John.

"Ah!" Sherlock jumps, startled by the sound of John's voice as it resonated through his chest and into the bell of the stethoscope. He drags out the plugs and paws at one of his ears.

Cautiously, John pushes himself upright. He expects the nausea to surge violently, but it doesn't. His stomach rolls uncomfortably, but that's about it. He's relieved. That's about all he can deal with right now, he thinks. He rubs the back of his neck and then pushes the blankets away. For the first time, he notices that he's been relieved of his coat and his jumper, and is down to his trousers and shirt. Parts of him are clammy with sweat. "Ugh."

"Your fever's down," Sherlock reports. He is consulting his phone. "It's been falling steadily since four-thirty-four. You were at 37.5 an hour ago. And you haven't vomited in several hours."

John isn't nearly as pleased as Sherlock to hear about his vomit. Or lack thereof. "What?" he questions dumbly.

"Hm, but you're obviously still disoriented." The detective looks down at John over the top of his phone. "Any pain?"

"Um… no?"

"No? Was that a question?"

"No?" John blinks. "Sorry, Sherlock, but - what are you doing?"

"I'm taking care of you. This is what you do, isn't it? Keep a log of signs and symptoms, and monitor your patients' progress while you provide treatment."

John's heart sinks a little. "What sort of treatment have you been providing?"

Sherlock consults his phone again. "Paracetamol, fluids, and bed-rest."

"Oh." That's not so bad. Actually, that's exactly what he needed. And, according to his 'chart,' he's on the mend, so apparently Sherlock even has this doctor thing down pat. John picks up his water glass from the coffee table and sips tentatively. "Thank you," he says afterward. He exhales audibly. "Though, y'know, most of it wasn't necessary. It's just a stomach bug. All I needed was rest, you didn't have to… chart me. Have you been washing your hands?"

Sherlock nods toward a bottle of hand gel sitting on the side table.

"Could I trouble you for tea?" asks John, after a moment.

Without a word, Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and returns quickly with a steaming mug. "I calculated what time you'd wake based on the trajectory of your illness and what time you finally settled down," he explains. "I started steeping your tea four minutes ago."

Sometimes, that great brain of his could be downright scary. "Uh… thanks, Sherlock. That was, um… kind, I think?"

Nodding, Sherlock sits at the other end of the sofa and picks up his own teacup from the coffee table.

For a few minutes, the two of them sip their tea in companionable silence. John is relieved to be feeling better. He's also relieved that Sherlock's idea of treatment hasn't maimed or killed him. Actually, truth be told, the detective did a fine job. He looks over at his flatmate, studying his profile, and wonders if he ought to compliment his passable work or if Sherlock would just be weird about it. Then he notices the odd ashen quality to his flatmate's features, and the thin film of perspiration that has begun to coat his brow.

"Sherlock," John says slowly. "Look at me."

Sherlock looks.

John frowns. "I think you're sick."

"No, I'm not!"


	3. Trapped

**Characters: **Moriarty & Sherlock

**POV:** Sherlock

**Prompt: ****Sherlock is in Moriarty's clutches. **

**Submitted by:** jink

**Note: **Takes place sometime during Series 2. The exact timing isn't important, just know that this is not a Series 4 prediction by any stretch of the imagination. Also, if the demand is there, I may do this prompt again sometime with sick!Sherlock or high!Sherlock - thoughts?

* * *

><p>Sherlock doesn't remember what happened. But then, memory is a funny thing. At any given time, a person's memory centres are only functioning at about 60% accuracy. The human brain can edit, delete, or fabricate memories subconsciously - meaning that the person doesn't even know it's happening. Sometimes even the most vivid memories are fake; and sometimes even the most traumatic events are deleted. Not even Sherlock Holmes can completely overcome that kind of primal brain function. It is, unfortunately, just a fact of life.<p>

_Think_, Sherlock tells himself. _Assess the situation_. He finds his brain is sluggish to comply, like a computer in the process of booting up. Sending and resending commands repeatedly will only slow it down, so the best course of action is to sit back and wait for it to awaken itself.

The first thing he becomes aware of is that he is somewhere in between conscious and unconscious. He knows he ought to be able to make a deduction based on that fact, but his mind draws a blank. That's not a good sign. A long string of possibilities as to why that is begins to flood his mind: _brain injury, drugs, sick, drunk - _

_Stop_.

Pain is the next thing that registers. Most people describe pain in terms of heat: _searing, white-hot, red, burning. _But Sherlock's pain is cold. It's cold and it's inescapable, like someone is filling his insides with ice. On the outside edges of his awareness, he can feel his body reacting, clutching reflexively at his core, guarding the wound - wound? His voice falls through the rough notes of a low-pitched groan, but it sounds faraway, as if it is someone else's.

He notices he is moving. No, not moving - _being_ moved. Dragged backward. Then dropped, repositioned. Pain again.

"Sheeeeeeerrrlooooooooock."

Rhotic accent. Not English. Irish. Dublin. His brain is warming up, finally.

"This is no fun, Sherlock. Wake up!"

Moriarty.

Sherlock's eyes snap open. His vision is blurred and jumpy, but he gathers that he's looking at a ceiling. The pain intensifies as his senses sharpen - a nasty side effect of his brain coming around to full functionality.

"I called your bluff," Moriarty's voice floats over him, shrill and lyrical. "Only you didn't move quick enough."

There are hands on him. His hands. Moriarty's. Pulling and prodding and - _oh_, that hurts. Sherlock coughs dust out of his throat and lifts one of his hands into his field of vision. It's red and shining with his blood.

James Moriarty's face appears directly above him. His eyes are wide, manic. There is a cut slicing through one eyebrow. It bleeds into the inner corner of his eye, flooding it and making him look as though he is crying tears of blood. Every blink disperses blood across his cornea. His eyes are watering from the salt.

Sherlock tries to talk, but he hasn't the strength. He can feel himself beginning to shake, a slight tremor that sets into his hands and feet first. Some part of him knows that this, along with the strange perception of cold, is a sign of catastrophic blood loss.

"Shh," Jim soothes, petting his face with a dusty hand. He's smiling. He bends over Sherlock's body and starts picking debris out of his clothes. "Jim and Sherly went down to Burley to fetch a pail of water," he sings. "Sherly got mad, and Jim was sad, and then the building collapsed!"

_And then the building collapsed_. Now he remembers. Moriarty blew up a building. To prove a point. Stupid. They both might have been killed - what then?

"Oh, hell!"

A sudden pressure in his abdomen makes Sherlock suck in a strangled breath. His vision darkens at the edges.

"No, no," Moriarty is saying now, his voice barely audible above the rushing in Sherlock's ears. He taps Sherlock's face with a bloody hand.

More pressure. Sherlock blinks his vision clear and makes himself look down. Moriarty is tearing bits from Sherlock's clothes and using them to pack a deep wound in his abdomen. All he can see is red. His shirt, his jacket, Moriarty's hands and arms up to the elbows… red. He lets his head fall back again. "Why...?"

Jim presses a few more strips of fabric into the wound and leans close to Sherlock's face, his breath ghosting over the detective's skin in short, hot bursts. "Because you're not allowed to die. Not til I say go. Oh, eventually, maybe, but not now. C'mere." Dust and debris crunch under his feet as he moves toward Sherlock's head. He sticks his hands under the detective's arms and drags him backward toward the other side of the room.

An involuntary cry rips from Sherlock's throat at the sudden movement. He can feel himself breaking out in a sweat, but all he feels is cold.

"The cavalry'll be on their way," Moriarty is saying now, as he props Sherlock up against the wall. "Not long, now. What d'you think John would pay for you, mm?" He grins an animal grin and pushes Sherlock's legs apart so that he can sit cross-legged in the space between them. The cut on his face is bleeding freely, and he seems to be favouring his left side, but it's as if he hardly notices. "Would John lay down his _life_ for you, Sherlock?"

_John_. His heart speeds up at the mention of his flatmate, panic exploding across his chest like lightning, and he tries to move but finds he can't. He thinks of John sitting in his chair reading a book, which is where he left him this morning. He wonders if he's still there, or if some military sixth sense of _danger_ has awakened in his brain. Probably not. John is terribly slow.

"So, is that a yes?"

"What… do you… want?" Sherlock pants. The icy pain in his abdomen seems to be radiating outward - down into his legs, up into his lungs. Breathing requires concentration.

"You," that lilting voice replies. He places the index finger of his right hand beside the outer corner of Sherlock's eye and drags gently downward, tracing the shape of his face. "All of you. Every last inch." That touch, too hot, slides over Sherlock's throat now, over his collarbone, down the front of his tattered shirt. "Even the bits that John Watson claimed for himself. You're mine, Sherlock, you just don't know it yet. I own you." Moriarty's hand stops at the wound, dances around the edge of it for a moment. He presses his finger into the makeshift bandage, making Sherlock squirm in discomfort. "You can't stop it. I collapsed a building on you to make sure you wouldn't get away," he points out.

"Collapsed a building - on both of us," Sherlock corrects, his voice made ragged and sharp by agony. He closes his hand around Jim's wrist and pries him away from the wound. "I-Ineffective as it was. You have at least… two fractured ribs. Could have been killed… by that support beam."

Jim glances down at himself. "Fared better than you." He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

Darkness edges into Sherlock's vision again. He is light-headed and tired, so tired. He can hear his respiration speeding up, his body desperately trying to reroute oxygen to his brain, but the problem is his blood, not his breathing. His eyes slide shut, and Moriarty's voice fades to a low murmur beneath the sound of running water.

Blackness.

Then, exactly fifty-seven seconds later, he wakes with a start and finds himself lying on the crumbling floor again, with Jim hovering over top of him, his hands poised on Sherlock's chest. Those dark eyes stare fiercely down at him, angry and insulted that he would have the audacity to try and die before he was given permission.

"I said no, Sherlock," Jim reminds him. He's winded from the set of compressions he's just delivered with two broken ribs protesting. "I said not yet." He moves one hand and puts pressure on the bleeding in the detective's abdomen.

Sherlock arches his back against this new wave of pain, strangling the sound his body tries to make. He tosses his head in protest, notices his phone lying on the ground to his right. Call connected: 999. "How kind of you," he hisses.

"Shush."

It's ridiculous, Sherlock has the presence of mind to realise. The Napoleon of crime, he calls himself, and he's sitting on his knees giving his nemesis CPR. Sherlock swallows painfully and tries to roll his eyes, but the lids just flutter shut. For the best, probably. If he has to look at Moriarty's annoying face for another instant, he might just spit. Normally, he could appreciate a good paradox, but right now he's consumed by pain.

Moriarty hums to himself. "Lot of blood."

"Astute observation."

All of a sudden, his voice is much to close to Sherlock's ear. "Lighten up, Sure-Luck. I didn't kill you, did I? Listen, I - oh." He stops short, possibly cut off by the sirens that are approaching. His eyes go wide and his eyebrows lift comically as he nods his approval. "Very nice, very prompt. That's my cue, Sherlock. Hey." He taps the detective's face.

With a great amount of effort, Sherlock pries his eyes open. Moriarty is grasping one of his hands, pressing it into the wound.

"Do tell that nice policeman not to bother, eh? He won't find anything here, 'cept the expired charges. And a whole lotta your blood, o' course. And listen, try not to die, okay?"

"Do my best," Sherlock says, his voice dripping with evident sarcasm. "For you."

Moriarty laughs heartily, though it's cut off abruptly as his injuries protest. "Be seeing you," he promises, patting Sherlock's cheek. He stands and walks away, straightening his ruined suit as he disappears behind a fallen pillar.

Distantly, Sherlock can hear the crunch of tyres as a rescue team pulls up outside.

_Catch you later_.


	4. Adrenaline and Too Much Sugar

**Characters:** Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson

**POV:** Lestrade

**Prompt: ****Lestrade is injured on a case. Anderson, Donovan, John and Sherlock all offer their opinions and comfort, in their own particular styles.**

**Submitted by: **ButterscotchCandybatch

* * *

><p><strong>Monday<strong>

London is freezing and covered in a blanket of fresh snow on the day that Greg breaks his ankle. It's a bad landing from a four-foot drop that does it, during an adrenaline-fueled chase of a robbery suspect who's eluded capture for nearly a month. He doesn't realise at first that he's hurt himself - adrenaline and all - so he carries on running on it, catches the bugger he's been chasing, books him in, and goes about securing the crime scene. Twenty minutes later, the adrenaline has worn off and he starts limping. Sally asks him what's wrong and he says he thinks he's rolled it. Ten minutes pass and he's starting to find excuses to lean up against a patrol car to take the weight off it, and he starts to wonder if he's sprained it. After fifteen minutes, the pain is bad enough that it stops his breath whenever he accidentally stands on that foot, but he's Greg and so he doesn't say anything. It's not until a few minutes later that John and Sherlock catch up with him and John notices his greenish pallor and tells him to sit down before he falls down.

"What is it?" John asks, kneeling in front of the inspector.

Greg is sitting on the kerb, and he tries to wave John away. "Ah, it's fine, it's just a sprained ankle. Could use a couple paracetamol, though."

"This one?" John gingerly rolls up Lestrade's left trouser leg and peeks under his sock. The bruising is already a deep purple and spreading up his leg. The doctor hums thoughtfully and eases Greg out of his shoe and sock to get a better look. He sighs when he sees the full scope of the injury. The swelling is already noticeable, the bruising evident from the middle of his foot to part of his calf. He palpates the joint gently.

Lestrade barely contains a hiss of pain.

"Yeah, that's not a sprain, that's a break. And how long have you been walking around on a broken ankle?"

"Better part of an hour?" Greg guesses.

John sighs. "Go to the hospital."

Greg thinks that is sound advice. "Okay, I just need to - "

"Go _now_."

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

"Bollocks." Lestrade feels spectacularly stupid. He's standing in his division's kitchenette at the Yard, staring down at a cup of coffee overflowing with the entire contents of the sugar bowl. His dominant hand is occupied with his crutches, and he had thought that stirring sugar into his coffee would be easy enough to do with his left. Putting the crutches down might have been an option, except that he's in too much pain to try to stand without them. And, well, balancing on one foot for more than a few seconds is and always has been out of the question.

"Alright, Boss?"

Greg glances over his shoulder, sees a mop of curly hair, and turns back to his embarrassment of a coffee cup. "Fine," he says, trying to get rid of Sgt Donovan before she sees what he's done.

But it's too late. Sally chuckles good-naturedly and stands beside him. "Bit of a mess, that."

"Yeah."

"Sit." Donovan pulls a chair from the nearby folding table with her foot and steers Greg into it. "I'll do this."

"It's fine, I can manage," Lestrade stutters, thoroughly humiliated by his inability to pour coffee.

"I can see that!" the sergeant responds. She dumps his entire cup in the trash and starts over. "Y'know, I think there's a reason they give you some paid time off after you've broken your leg. If you can't stand here for two minutes to make a cuppa, you probably ought to be at home with the good drugs."

"Eh." Greg fidgets. "Didn't want to put you all out. We've been swamped lately…"

"Oh, right." Sally stirs a much more reasonable amount of sugar into the new cup of steaming black liquid. "It has nothing to do with the fact you'd miss it sitting at home."

Lestrade grins sheepishly. Guilty as charged.

Donovan puts a fresh cup of coffee in front of him with a knowing smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday<strong>

Greg is in a good mood when he arrives at a homicide scene early in the morning. He took his good drugs last night and finally got a full night's rest. He even managed to go about his morning routine without falling over, knocking anything down with his crutches, or banging into any doors. So far, it's a good day.

"What have we got?" he asks as he arrives on scene.

Anderson meets him at the doorway of the house in question. "Female, mid-thirties, multiple stab wounds. Looks like a crime of passion. Neighbours say she's been suspiciously attached to the pool-boy. Seems pretty straightforward."

"Yeah, good. What about the…?" Lestrade makes a slicing gesture across his throat.

"You'll want to have a look at that," the forensic analyst assures him. "This way."

Greg follows Phillip inside the house, down a hall, and through a sparsely decorated sitting room. At the stairway, Anderson starts to go up, but turns when he realises that the DI isn't following. He glances at the boot on Greg's ankle, at the crutches, then makes eye contact. "Oh…"

Lestrade looks at the staircase. From here, it looks like an awfully long set of steps. Steep, too. "Bugger…"

Anderson grimaces at first, but then his eyes widen and he thrusts a finger in the air. "Hang on!" he says, and turns and rushes up the stairs, leaving Greg to wait at the bottom. He's gone just a couple of minutes, and when he runs back down the steps, he has his phone in his hand. "Here, have a look," he says, stepping down to stand beside the DI so that they can both see the smartphone's screen. He cycles through a few photos of the scene, and the ligature marks on the woman's throat.

"Yeah, you're right, that is strange. Why strangle her if he'd already stabbed her? Doesn't make sense."

"Could be a sex thing," Phillip offers. He frowns at the grimace Lestrade makes. "Alright there?"

"Fine," the DI replies immediately. He shifts his booted foot painfully. "Damn thing."

Anderson nods, then flicks through a couple more of the macabre photographs. "Well. At least you're not her."

Lestrade must admit that this is a good point.

* * *

><p><strong>Thursday<strong>

"Yes, but why in _my_ bedroom?" Sherlock demands, carefully setting a stack of Burberry suits down on John's armchair.

John's voice is thin with impatience. "Because mine's upstairs, and that's the whole point - he can't be going up and down the stairs half a dozen times a day. And put your clothes somewhere else."

"There are seventeen stairs leading up to our flat," the detective points out.

"Yes, but he won't be going up and down those either," John fires back with a pointed look at Greg.

Lestrade is seated on the sofa, having been forcibly removed from his flat after John found out that he was not only back at work, but that his bathroom and his bedroom are on the small rental home's second floor.

"He's taking the next two weeks off - perhaps more, if he keeps insisting on impeding progress by walking around all the time - and he's not going anywhere that isn't the bathroom, the kitchen, or the surgery." John rounds on Greg. "Right?"

"Whatever you say, mate," Lestrade concedes, having already been subjected to one of John's lectures. They've come to an agreement that he can have Sally round once a day to update him on their ongoing cases, but he's not to do any legwork whatsoever.

John flashes a satisfied smile. "You're an easier patient than this one," he observes, jerking a thumb toward Sherlock.

* * *

><p><strong>Friday<strong>

Sherlock's bedroom is a thing of wonder. Until now, Lestrade has never seen it - not in this flat or any of the other ones he's occupied in the last seven or so years. The bookshelves are stuffed with everything from Shakespeare to Poe to Mendeleev, and a good two dozen other great minds Greg has never heard of. The subjects range from fiction to the sciences to crime scene analysis. Above his bed hangs a Judo certificate. There are old photographs of famous people on the walls, and Lestrade suspects that one or two of them are originals, worth a lot of money. Boxes upon boxes of closed case files are stacked in the closet behind the designer suits. But, most surprisingly, everything is neat and tidy. Unlike the rest of the flat, everything has a place here. Actually, the room looks hardly lived-in, and Lestrade realises that that's just the thing - Sherlock never spends any time in here.

Greg finishes his inspection of the room and, winded, sits down on the bed, the barely-used mattress sinking deliciously beneath him. There is sweat beaded on his brow. The oxycodone is barely taking the edge off tonight - John was right. He should have been taking it easy. He glances at the clock and notices with some dismay that it is 3AM. He's been fighting sleep for the better part of three hours.

He barely notices the footsteps at the door until he hears the near-whispered, "Oh," and looks up to see Sherlock standing in the threshold, looking uncomfortable.

"Apologies," the detective says softly. "I didn't think…"

"S'alright," Greg replies with an easy smile. "It's your room."

"I was just…" Sherlock peers toward the chest of drawers.

Lestrade follows his gaze and notices the Stradivarius, in all its flamed maple glory, perched upon the bureau. "Oh, of course," he says, making to stand.

Sherlock waves him back down and crosses the room in three strides. He picks up the instrument by the neck and fishes the bow out from between the chest and the wall. He pauses on his way out of the room, his expression unreadable as he looks down at Lestrade. "Are you… alright?"

"Mm? Ah, yeah. Fine. Just… blasted ankle. Seems I should have taken that injury leave after all."

The detective tilts his head ever so slightly. "John could - "

"No," Greg cuts him off quickly. "No, it's not that bad. 'M just gonna try and sleep it off."

Sherlock nods, lifts the violin in a silent salute, and glides away.

Greg lowers himself back down into bed and stares at the ceiling. Something upstairs creaks; John's awake, too, it would seem. Nobody in 221B is sleeping tonight, apparently.

The first soft strains of a Mozart concerto float through the flat, and Greg feels himself enveloped in old memories. His body relaxes back into the mattress, the tension slowly easing its way out of his shoulders and middle back. He closes his eyes and listens.

* * *

><p><strong>Two weeks later - Saturday<strong>

"Well, it's looking a lot better," John says, examining Greg's ankle under the light of a lamp that's been relieved of its shade. He's sitting on the coffee table across from Lestrade to have a better look. "How does it feel?"

"Not too bad," Lestrade replies, though his entire body is tense and he is sweating. Mrs. Hudson is seated on the sofa beside him, patting his arm reassuringly.

"Good," John murmurs. He steals a glance at his patient's face. "Now how about the truth?"

Greg's stomach churns. "A little tender. Worse at night."

"Paracetamol cutting it or are you still on the oxy?"

"Oxy. But only at night."

John nods and says, "That's about what I expected. I think you could try taking the boot off once in a while and putting it up for a bit with some ice, see if that helps with the pain. And start using those crutches. They aren't for decoration, you know."

Greg grunts in pain as John's fingers explore the break some more.

Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue and rubs Greg's arm sweetly. "Oh, dear. But he's right, Inspector. I should know - I've got a hip."

Both men pause and turn to her.

"How did you hurt your hip, Mrs. H?" John asks curiously.

"Oh - I broke it. Long time ago. Nasty business, a lot of physical therapy and such."

John glances sidelong at Lestrade, who shrugs, and then returns his attention to his landlady. "Doing what?"

"I fell off my balcony in Florida," she says casually. "After a fight."

"A what?" John and Lestrade exclaim in unison.

The landlady blinks innocently back at the two men. "Some of my husband's former business partners needed… well, it doesn't matter, does it!" She shakes her head and busies herself with fixing her hair. "Anyway, they burst in like they owned the place, and I wasn't having any of it! Only I was just a little wisp of a thing back then, eight and a half stone, and when push came to shove… well, I took one of them down with me, at least."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John exclaims, grinning. "You mean to tell me you fought members of a cartel to defend your husband's, er, product, and fell out of a balcony during the resulting, what - firefight?"

"Well, as I never got any shots off, it wasn't a proper firefight, was it?" Mrs. Hudson replies, all in a tizzy now. She stands suddenly and straightens her blouse, looking down at Lestrade with a mix of maternal concern and utter mortification. "I'll fix you that cuppa, dear. You just rest here." With that, she bustled away.

Lestrade, dazed, stares out at John in bewilderment. "And here I've only fallen off of a garden shed."


	5. Torment, Pt 1

**Characters: **Sherlock, John

**POV: **John

**Prompt: **John discovers that Sherlock was tortured at the beginning of TEH.

**Submitted by: **ScribeOfRED

* * *

><p>It's rainy and dreary when the cab pulls up outside of 221B, but John finds himself standing on the street staring up at the building anyway. <em>Sherlock's in there<em>, he thinks, and it's a strange thing to think after three years of _Sherlock's not there_. He's here at Mary's behest, after weeks of silence. After the dreadful business with Guy Fawkes Night and the train bomb and everything, they'd seen very little of each other. John had tried to stay away. He thought that's what was expected of him - he was a grownup now, a real one. _That's not my life anymore_, John had said to him. _I'm getting married. I've made a life for myself. I can't go running about chasing murderers and thieves._ But then the tremors and the nightmares had gotten to be too much, and Mary had pushed him to come, to answer Sherlock's multiple texts of _**Case - coming?**_

And so here he is.

Everything's so strange and new that John waffles for a moment on the doorstep, wondering whether to ring the bell or go right up. In the end, he decides to go right up - after all, Sherlock's given him back his key, so he must be welcome. He steps through the outer door and shakes the rain off of his coat, stamps it off of his shoes. The warmth is familiar and comforting as the door slams shut behind him, a pleasant change from the autumn chill outside.

"Sherlock," he calls as he takes the stairs two at a time. His left hand fumbles for his key in his pocket, but as his right tries the knob, he finds it's unlocked. Typical. Sherlock has probably deduced exactly what time he'd arrive based on the timing of his texts or the tone of his voice in his message or something.

The detective is standing in front of a roaring fire with one hand on the mantel. He is all crisp lines, even in a t-shirt and dressing gown, and John finds himself marveling at how some things never seem to change - and it isn't the first time this thought has struck him in these recent weeks. If Sherlock heard John come in, he gives no indication; but that's nothing new.

John clears his throat on the threshold and tries again, "Morning, Sherlock."

Ever so slightly, the detective turns his head toward the sound of John's voice. "Morning," he says mildly, but he sounds distracted.

As John scans the room, he sees a plate of toast on the sideboard, abandoned; a laptop open but asleep on the table; a mobile phone sitting, unlocked, on his armchair. "Case on?"

"No." A pause, and then Sherlock seems to come alive again, turning, looking around, registering John's presence. "What? Yes."

Confused, John tilts his head. "Well, which is it?"

"I… sorry, what?"

"Earth to Sherlock." John chuckles as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack beside the door, fully aware how distracted his friend can be when he's on a case. He's missed it in a way, all of this, even the way Sherlock can tune people out when he's working. It's familiar, comforting, a reminder of old times.

Unfortunately, John's warm nostalgia is broken when the detective turns to face him, and his eyes take in the hollow, faraway look on Sherlock's face. That's not a look that says _absorbed in a case_, that's… well, John isn't entirely sure, but it's something else, and he doesn't like it. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replies predictably, but John notices the way he's slightly hunched over and the faint line of worry between his brows.

Tension coils the muscles in John's shoulders as unease spreads through him. "No - what is it? Maybe I can help."

Sherlock looks uncomfortable, as if he's been caught in a lie. "I'm not sure," he admits. His right hand strays stiffly to his left ribcage, and suddenly John notices the tiny spot of blood on his shirt.

Frowning, John crosses the room to his friend's side. "May I?" At the detective's nod, he slides the t-shirt up out of the way and peers at the exposed skin in the dim light. There is a pink, ropey scar winding up his side, tracing the edge of a rib. The wound is freshly healed - the original injury occurred within the last eight weeks. The middle of it is faintly red, and bleeding slightly. John thinks at first that he's looking at some sort of persistent granulation, but when he runs his fingers over the scar, he can feel a hard lump. He hums thoughtfully and straightens, pointing Sherlock toward his chair. "Go and sit, the light's better over there."

Sherlock does as he's asked, but he has that hollow look again.

_He's miles away_, John thinks to himself. He kneels in front of Sherlock and lifts the hem of the shirt out of the way again, his touch confident and clinical as he assesses the wound. He can see from the scarring pattern that it was stitched up at one point, but sloppily - possibly Sherlock had done it himself or perhaps it had become infected and reopened at one point. Beneath the swollen flesh, he can feel an object about two centimetres in length. It has healed into the scar tissue, but now his body is rejecting it. Looks a lot like a shrapnel wound. John frowns and lifts his eyes to Sherlock's face. "How did this happen?"

Staring into the middle distance, the detective gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Things didn't go as planned in Serbia."

John has no idea what that means. "Well, I can fix it, but not here. Come on. Put some clothes on and come with me."

* * *

><p>John's surgery is a short cab ride away from Baker Street. As today is Sunday, the place is locked up and dark, and they are the only ones in the building.<p>

"Right then," John murmurs as he leads Sherlock through the entrance, down a hallway, and into one of the rooms in the back. He flicks the lights on and points toward the exam table. "Shirt off and hop up." As he turns his back on his patient to assemble supplies, he can hear the rustle of fabric and then the crinkle of exam table paper which indicates that Sherlock has followed directions without argument.

When the instrument cart is ready, John rolls it over beside the table and just barely manages to hold back a startled gasp as his eyes take in the sight of Sherlock's bare torso. His skin is dotted with scars - large ones, small ones; old, new; ones that healed neatly and a few that clearly didn't. There's a particularly nasty one that follows the curve of his left deltoid - long and jagged and fairly new, just like the one on his ribcage that John is about to treat. "Serbia again?" he asks, examining the scar for similar debris.

"Not my best day," Sherlock remarks drily.

With a sigh, John pushes him to lie back on the semi-reclined table, and settles beside him on a low rolling stool, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves. "Arm up. I'm going to inject some lidocaine first. This'll sting and burn a bit." With practised ease, John pushes the needle into four spots around the site of the debris, glancing up just once as Sherlock hisses through his teeth. After a few moments, the detective's face relaxes, and he doesn't react as John palpates the shrapnel trapped beneath the skin. Satisfied that the area is fully numb, he picks up a scalpel and begins making a tiny incision through which to remove the foreign object.

After a few moments of quiet, concentrated work, John allows himself a furtive look at his patient's face. Sherlock is lying still, his expression relaxed as he stares at the ceiling. He's not concerned in the slightest with what John is doing - he trusts him implicitly. The doctor's eyes return to the jagged scar, which is now bleeding freely from the incision. "So, what happened?"

Sherlock turns his head toward John, adjusting the arm folded under it so that he can see him. "I told you."

"Yeah, bad day in Serbia," John replies. "But what happened? To cause this?"

Grey-green eyes scan John's face. "I was stabbed with an ice pick. Which apparently broke."

"I can see _that_." John has the tip of a pair of forceps inside the incision, easing the tiny piece of metal out of Sherlock's skin inch by inch. He dabs blood away from the field with his other hand and works the debris free. "But what _happened_, Sherlock?"

"I got mixed up with some bad people."

"And?"

"And they stabbed me with an ice pick." His tone is growing annoyed.

The debris falls into the tray with a clatter, and John drops the bloody forceps down beside it and changes his gloves with a sharp snap. He makes no effort to hide his irritation with Sherlock's evasions - honestly, he's had it with the lies. Enough is enough already.

"I got caught," Sherlock states flatly. "I was caught and tortured for information by Serbian black ops. There, are you pleased?"

"Yes!" John snaps before he can stop himself. He releases the breath he's been holding and drops the half-opened suture kit on the cart. "No. Of course not. Are you serious?"

The ensuing silence is answer enough.

"Jesus," John exhales, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin as he gets to work suturing the incision. Of all the things Sherlock could have said, he hadn't expected _that_. They're both quiet now, as he works; John contemplating what this means and Sherlock no doubt contemplating how to shut down John's next line of questioning.

In short order, John has made two neat little stitches in the incision, cleaned and dressed the wound, and dumped all the bloody instruments in a metal dish on the worktop beside the sink. He disposes of his gloves and the sharps and washes his hands. He turns to find Sherlock sitting up now, his back to him, easing himself gingerly off the end of the table. From here, he can see three scars - the one on his shoulder, one on the right side of his lower back, and another on the back of his neck. Surely they're not all from Serbia - John knows that he spent two full years tracking down dangerous criminals and putting them out of action - but he wonders how many are.

"How long?" asks John, his voice lower now, gentler. He observes his friend carefully slipping back into his crisp grey button-up shirt.

"Mm?" Sherlock half-turns so that he can glance over at John as he buttons his shirt.

"Serbia."

"Two weeks." He shrugs into his suit jacket, moving slowly to keep from pulling on the stitches he can't yet feel. "At least, I'm reasonably certain it was two weeks."

Frowning, John tries to wrap his mind around this new information. Sherlock was held for two weeks by torturers. Maybe longer. "How did you get out?"

"I seized an opportunity. I noticed that my captor's wife was cheating on him, and Mycroft happened to be in the right place at the right time to aid my escape. It was simple, really, despite what Mycroft tries to say."

"Mycroft?" John questions. "Serbia was right before you came back home, then."

"Yes."

"You were being tortured a month ago and now you're…"

"Being Sherlock Holmes," the detective finishes for him.

John blinks. "Are… are you alright?"

Sherlock's fingers pause on the last button and his expression turns pensive. "More or less."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock - really? More or less?"

"What would you like me to say?" He turns to face John at last, tucking his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. "That I can't sleep? I'm haunted by it? That I can't stop thinking about it?"

For a moment, John just stares, trying to read something in his face. He swallows, hard, and asks, "Is any of that true?"

There's silence as Sherlock gazes back at him, his expression unreadable. John can't tell if he's trying to muster the courage to say yes or come up with a way to prove an answer of no. He's just standing there, for a long time, saying nothing, betraying nothing. Like a tall, wiry statue. At last, he takes a deep breath, inclines his head, and says, softly, "Thank you, John," before stepping out of the room, signaling that the conversation, for now at least, is over.

John can't help wondering if he's got his answer.

| TO BE CONTINUED |

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Hello, I have returned! I had another baby! I don't know what it is about being pregnant that makes me not want to write, but for some reason that's what happens to me. However, I am now done procreating, so I'M BACK. Did ya miss me? Please send your HC prompts my way if you did!**


	6. Of Sleep and Tea and Penguins

**Characters: **John, Sherlock

**POV:** Alternating

**Prompt:** Sherlock can't sleep.

**Submitted by: ** ZukoFlame

* * *

><p>"One thousand, one hundred, forty-two. One thousand, one hundred, forty-three. One thousand, one-hundred, forty-four."<p>

_This is ridiculous. It's been ridiculous for one thousand, one hundred, thirty-three seconds. Pointless, stupid. Dull. Boring. _

Sherlock jumps up from the sofa and begins pacing. It's one of those nights. His body is exhausted, but his mind is racing; he's like a high-speed engine that's run out of track and is now barreling through the countryside - aimless and destructive. He doesn't know how to turn it off and just _sleep _and so despite the very real demands of his transport and a very real lack of distracting cases, he just keeps going, unable to throw the brakes. A quick Google search turned up the usual suggestions - counting imaginary sheep, drinking warm milk, reading a reference book, watching boring telly. But doing dull, monotonous tasks doesn't bore Sherlock into sleep, it bores him into irritation.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupt his thoughts, and he looks up in time to see John descending in his dressing gown and pyjamas and bare feet. The doctor stops on the third stair up and squints at him, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Thought I heard you," John says, his voice thick and groggy. He holds up his phone to show Sherlock the time displayed on the lock screen. "It's two o'clock in the morning. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says crisply. He resumes his pacing.

"The case is closed," John points out. Captain Obvious.

"Yes," the detective drawls.

"So… what are you doing?"

Sherlock is losing his patience. Not that he had any to begin with. "What does it look like I'm doing, John?"

"Pacing a hole in the carpet."

"Very astute." The detective's gait becomes more agitated, his footsteps more rapid. "Can't sleep," he says at last, taking pity on John's idiocy.

John descends the rest of the stairs and pockets his phone, leaning on the wall where he can observe his flatmate. "Did you try - "

"Yes!"

"No, but did you - "

"Yes, I did that, too!"

"Or - "

"Yes, John, I've tried everything. And I took four Nytol."

John's eyes do that thing that Sherlock hates where they get very wide and blink a lot. "_Four_?"

Sherlock had predicted this response. Rolling his eyes, he waves him off. "I've built up a tolerance."

"Why don't you just relax then?" his flatmate asks, yawning and stretching as he pushes away from the wall. He wanders toward the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him filling the kettle. His voice floats out from under the sounds of running water and mugs clinking together. "You know, just lie on the sofa with the telly on or something. It's been, what, two days since you've slept, you're bound to pass out if you just lie still for a bit."

"I did that already," growls Sherlock.

"You have to give it some time."

"I did!"

John's sigh is clearly audible. "How much time?"

"One thousand, one hundred, forty-four seconds!"

There's a moment or two of silence as John does the math, and Sherlock can practically hear the gears turning in his head at a painfully slow grind. "Nineteen minutes. You laid down for nineteen minutes."

Sherlock clenches his teeth and continues pacing without answering John. _Case,_ he thinks, _I need a case_. It's basically reflexive at this point - boredom requires a case. _Tired_, his brain reminds him. Too tired to work efficiently, in all probability, though he's loathe to admit it. He is at least partially human, after all. He lets out a growl of frustration and does another lap around the sitting room.

"Okay," John says, emerging at last from the kitchen. He sets two steaming mugs of tea down on the coffee table and steps into Sherlock's path. Sherlock nearly bowls him over, but John holds him in place by the shoulders. "Stop it, would you! Take a deep breath."

The detective groans and starts to wriggle out of his grasp.

"Do it," John orders, his fingers tightening.

Grudgingly, Sherlock drags in a slow breath through his nose, allowing his eyes to fall shut as he does. He opens them again as he releases it. Oddly, he feels calmer. He stares down at John and awaits further instructions.

"Right. We're gonna sit down, and _relax_, and I promise you will sleep eventually. Even you can't stay awake forever. Here." Bending and reaching past Sherlock, John picks up their mugs and hands one to his flatmate, who accepts it without comment.

* * *

><p>John sips his tea and watches Sherlock spread himself out on the sofa, mug cradled between his bony hands. His toes flex and relax against the armrest at the other end, a telling sign: bored already.<p>

Clearing his throat, John settles in his own chair, mug in hand, and digs the remote control out from between the cushions. "This is what normal people do when they can't sleep," he explains, his tone half teasing and half serious.

"Boring," Sherlock says immediately.

"It's supposed to be," John returns. He flicks through channels. Infomercials, cooking shows, reruns. He lands at random on some American programme about five friends living together in New York in the 90s. There. Perfect. Blissfully, there's silence from Sherlock's side of the room. For about ninety seconds, anyway.

"Obvious," the detective moans. "Rachel still loves Ross, Ross still loves Rachel, but for whatever reason, most likely their own insecurities, they can't be together - the unrequited love trope. Since Rachel hasn't joined the others in London for Ross's wedding, it's clear that she's going to realise her feelings for Ross and hurriedly board a plane just in time to arrive in London and ruin the wedding, causing Ross to - "

"Stop deducing fictional characters, Sherlock. They're fictional - you can't know what they are or aren't about to do."

Of course, he has an answer for this, too. "When a programme is reasonably well acted, there is a measure of accuracy in certain facial - "

"This is why you can't sleep!" John exclaims.

"I can't turn it off and on like a tap," the detective snaps back, his irritation plain as he sits up and places his tea on the coffee table. He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and braces his elbows on his knees, leveling a withering look at his flatmate. "I need a case."

Sighing, John shakes his head. "You need _sleep_." It's true - even in the dim light of the television glow, he can see the dark circles round Sherlock's eyes. "How do you normally get to sleep?" he asks, passing his mug from one hand to the other and scrubbing at his forehead.

Sherlock simply shrugs, shaking his head in exasperation.

"Well, then, I'll just stay up with you." John settles back in his chair and turns his attention to the TV, ignoring the slack-jawed way his flatmate is staring at him. "Look at that, you were right. How did you know Rachel would fly to London at the last minute?"

* * *

><p>For some time, the two of them watch <em>Friends<em> reruns and John doesn't complain when Sherlock deduces the plot to death. The detective is grateful - occupying his mind with the show is at least keeping him from dwelling on the fact that he's never going to be able to sleep again in his life. He's not sure why John wants to join him in dying slowly of sleep deprivation, but he senses it has something to do with sentiment and as such would be offensive to John if he were to ask.

Once telly becomes boring, they move on to card games. Sherlock lets John win once or twice, to keep him interested. Then, John makes them both some toast. After that, they watch ten minutes of _Twilight_, just to see what all the fuss is about, then quickly turn it off and vow never to speak of it again. They play Scrabble for about five minutes, until Sherlock realises that John doesn't stand a chance of even challenging him adequately; he feigns boredom and puts the game away. They consider playing Cluedo, but remember how it went last time, and together they decide against it.

_Bored_, Sherlock thinks to himself as he and John go over case notes for the blog. The truth, though, is that he's glad John is here. He'd be climbing the walls otherwise. And maybe it is nice to have some company sometimes.

Of course, he can say none of this aloud or risk appearing sentimental.

* * *

><p>It's after six when John finally sees a light at the end of the tunnel. Not that he minds spending time with Sherlock just doing normal things for a change, but unlike his flatmate, John is human and he needs to sleep and he is bloody tired. They are both slumped in their chairs, eyes on the television again, watching a documentary about penguins. For once in his life, Sherlock doesn't have much of anything to say to the telly. This is the first sign that things are starting to turn for the better. The second and most telling sign is that every now and then, when John glances over, Sherlock has his eyes closed.<p>

"Many of the penguins won't survive this part," Sherlock says lazily, his head flopped back on his chair. The fingers of his left hand twitch toward the television screen, gesticulating an explanation that never leaves the detective's lips. He gives up and drops his hand.

Indeed, Morgan Freeman narrates: "Many penguins will not survive this part of the journey…"

John doesn't bother being surprised that Sherlock can deduce penguins, as well.

They watch as the group of penguins tragically becomes smaller.

"John," Sherlock says after some minutes.

John looks over to see his flatmate's head lolling to one side. His eyes are closed. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Thank you," the detective mumbles.

A few seconds later, John hears the soft rumble of a snore, and relief washes over him. He doesn't even bother going upstairs and instead just drifts off where he sits in his own comfortable armchair, the blended sounds of marching penguins and Sherlock's breathing carrying him off to sleep.


	7. Meat Hooks

**Characters: **Lestrade, John, Sherlock

**POV:** Alternating (John and Greg)

**Prompt:** Greg is sick and John takes care of him, with a side of Sherlock being… well, Sherlock.

**Submitted by:** Talitha

**Warnings: **This one is really long, you guys...

* * *

><p>It's a bright, muggy day in London, and the crime scene is unfortunately situated outside, where the sun is relentlessly beating down on everyone assembled. It seems the criminal population of the metro area has not gotten the memo that it's too bloody hot outside for this.<p>

John wipes sweat from the back of his neck and stands up from where he's been examining the body of a man who has no blood left. There is no blood at the crime scene, either, so the question is - where is it? "Right," he says, placing his hands on his hips and staring down at the body. "Looks like he was bled out - deliberately. The purple marks round his eyes indicate he must have been strung upside down while he bled to death. Jesus."

At his shoulder, Lestrade nods his agreement. "Mm-hm."

Sherlock is kneeling on the other side of the body, peering through his magnifying glass. "No defensive wounds. He knew whomever did the cutting. Tiny puncture mark on the left side of the neck - possibly sedated. He didn't put up a fight, but you'll want to take fingernail scrapings anyway - could still be trace evidence there."

"Mm-hm," Greg agrees.

John scratches at his stubble, frowning as he watches Sherlock work. "There aren't any ligature marks on his ankles or anything," he points out.

"So hung upside down but not by his feet," the detective processes aloud. He pulls up the victim's pant legs to inspect his calves. No marks there, either. "We'll need to get the body to the morgue so I can check the rest of it. He was definitely upside down and bled out slowly."

Wincing, John wipes his forehead. "Like an animal at slaughter."

Beside him, Lestrade shivers. "Mm-hm."

"How could he have dropped off a body right in the middle of the street and not been noticed?" John wonders aloud, glancing around the street. It's a residential area, lots of houses around, surely somebody had to have noticed something.

"Mm-hm," Lestrade hums again.

This catches John's attention, and he turns to look at the DI. For the first time, he notices the way his shoulders curve inward and the way his arms are crossed tightly over his chest, so unlike his normal, easy posture. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm," Greg says, but then he starts and meets John's gaze. "What? Oh, yeah. 'M fine. Just… y'know, this." He gestures toward the body, and Sherlock flitting busily around it.

John narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You sure?"

"Yep."

* * *

><p>Greg is not fine. In fact, he feels like he's been hit by a bus. But this is the biggest case of the year - and possibly the foreseeable future - and he can't just walk away in the middle of an investigation this serious. The more time he spends on his feet, though, the more he curses the rotten timing - he feels like death warmed over and is starting to look it, too.<p>

Sherlock straightens up and bounds over to where Greg and John are standing, his eyes twinkling with barely-contained glee. "I've texted Molly instructions to process this one through quickly so that we can take a look at the body. Lestrade, I'll also need the victim's personal effects, as well as the key to his storage unit. I need to inspect his bicycle."

"His bicycle?" Greg echoes, barely keeping up. Okay, not really keeping up at all. "Why his bicycle."

"Just a hunch, nothing solid." Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. Then he's staring him down. Or he seems to be. Is he? Yes, he is. He's deducing him to bits. _Don't say anything, you great big git._

John's got eyes on him again, too. "You okay?" he repeats.

"Fine," Lestrade insists again, but he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice and thinks he could have done better than that.

"Nope," Sherlock chirps. He could sound a little less pleased, but Greg doesn't think he's even trying.

"Yeah, no, you look a bit peaky." John has stepped a little closer and is frowning up at him now.

Greg laughs nervously and steps back. "Come on, you guys, we've got work to do."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

Greg's vision starts to swim a little, and it has nothing to do with the heat.

Then, suddenly, John's hands are on him, one on his upper arm and one on his waist, pushing him to sit down on the kerb. He doesn't remember taking the three steps toward the street, but knows he must have. John is finishing a sentence that Greg doesn't quite register except for the words _shut up, Sherlock _tacked onto the end. Greg presses a hand to the side of his foggy head and exhales.

John seems like he's trying to be discrete. He's casually sat down on the kerb beside him with his arms resting on his knees. "Take it easy for a minute," he suggests. Greg can feel him watching his face. "Any better?"

Greg nods. "Told you, I'm fine."

"Oh, right, I see that." Amusement lilts John's voice. "You seem great. Except for the part where you nearly collapsed on a crime scene, but I suppose that was just for show. Have you eaten this morning?"

"Yeah, few hours ago."

"You might be coming down with something. Do you feel ill?"

With a resigned sigh, Greg nods. "Yeah, a bit. Since last night. I think you're right." He passes a hand over his face. "Rotten timing."

"You should go home. We'll handle it. I'll even make sure Sherlock plays nice with the other boys."

Unable to stifle it, Greg laughs. "Right! I'm sure he'll cooperate." Sniffling, he glances over his shoulder to see the detective in question once again examining the body, entirely uninterested in what John and Greg are doing. Greg clears his throat and shakes his head and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing himself to get it together. "No, I can't just let this one go. The pressure's on from up top, and the media and everything. I'll be fine."

John's face goes through a change that Greg has seen before, settling on a look usually reserved for Sherlock when he's being stubborn or reckless or rude. "Ah, no," he says firmly. "If you're ill, you don't need to go running about in this heat, especially not if this case is going to drag on as long as I think it is. Besides, you'll get everyone else sick, too."

Greg is getting tired of repeating himself. "I'm _fine_. It'll pass."

"You look like shit," John says in a low voice. "And I'm sure you feel worse. _And _you're shivering, even though it's forty degrees out - that means fever. So you can stop denying it." He exhales audibly. "You can come with us, then. Back to Baker Street. We can work from there, and it saves you running about."

"Well, someone still has to do the running about," Greg points out.

"We'll figure it out."

* * *

><p>John is relieved when Greg finally agrees to come back with him. Honestly, when he's on a big case like this, Lestrade can be just as bad as Sherlock when it comes to neglecting himself in the name of the work. Truth be told, though, John doesn't have much room to talk. He's been known to suffer through illnesses in order to follow Sherlock across rooftops, too. Adrenaline junkies don't stop being adrenaline junkies when they're unwell.<p>

The cab ride back is quiet, except for Sherlock asking for clarification (again) as to why Greg should convalesce at their flat. At John's sharp tone, he concludes the conversation quickly, but with a quick, "Don't contaminate my evidence." To which Greg curtly reminds him that it's actually _his_ evidence, and that Sherlock is just borrowing it. The consulting detective, of course, has no rebuttal for this.

When they first arrive home, John is steeling himself for battle. But, it turns out, Lestrade is an easy patient. He accepts the cups of tea John presses into his hand, answers honestly when asked how he's feeling, and even at one point puts down the crime scene report to lie down on the couch for a spell. For years, John has dealt mostly with Sherlock - nursing ills, stitching wounds, insisting on rest and fluids - and it's been an uphill battle every time. With as dedicated as Greg is to his work, he had expected a similar power struggle.

But then, Sherlock does it partially out of a pathological need to defy authority. Greg doesn't have that problem.

Regardless, John finds himself questioning: is Greg just an easy patient, or is he much worse off than he seems?

Around lunchtime, Molly texts Sherlock and lets him know that the body is ready for him to examine at the morgue. Between the three of them, they decide that Greg should stay here while John and Sherlock see to it. Someone needs to cross-reference soil samples anyway, apparently, and it's one of the few specimens that Greg can't contaminate, so the job falls to him.

"Will you be alright on your own?" John asks as he puts on his coat.

"He'll be fine," Sherlock interjects impatiently. "There's tea and toast and Mrs. Hudson. He isn't dying. I need you at the morgue."

Greg nods his agreement and holds up a printed-out guide to soil deposits in West London. "I'll hold down the fort."

* * *

><p>The door slams shut and Greg drops his head into his hands. Death warmed over would be an improvement from where he is now. He doesn't want the others to know, because no doubt John would urge him to go home and Sherlock would be annoyed at his uselessness, and he simply can't turn his back on this case. When a man is bled like a side of meat and left in the middle of residential neighborhood, amidst children and families, the public demands answers. Hell, Greg wants answers.<p>

In the privacy of the vacated flat, Greg drops his reports down on the coffee table and sits back on the sofa, letting his head fall backward onto the cool leather. Part of him thinks he should just go home, spare the others the inconvenience, but he just can't let go of the case.

His head is pounding, though, which is making it nearly impossible to think coherently. He suspects John was right about the fever, too - he does have the chills, but he can feel how hot his own skin is. Nausea has been building all day as well, uncoiling menacingly in the pit of his stomach.

_Just be still a minute_, Greg thinks. _It'll pass_. _It isn't passing… Wait… No, it isn't passing. Actually, it's getting worse. Yes, definitely worse_. Somehow, he manages to leap up and get to the bathroom in time to avoid vomiting all over himself.

After it's over, he's kneeling on the floor, clutching the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, struggling to get his breath back, and finally thinks, _Yeah, I should go home._

* * *

><p>"Meat hooks," Sherlock says with evident delight as they get out of a cab at 221B. His examination of the body has brightened his mood considerably - not that he wasn't already indecently excited at the prospect of this particular murder in the first place.<p>

"Meat hooks," John repeats. "So you've said, twice now. Care to elaborate?"

"Meat hooks in the backs of his knees," he explains. "We didn't see the wounds because the body was face-up at the scene."

John winces. "He was hung from meat hooks while he bled out?" He feels vaguely nauseous. "That's disgusting."

"_Yes_!" Sherlock agrees, but his tone is inappropriately pleased.

John pays the cabbie and follows Sherlock inside, ruminating on the darker side of human nature - what pushes a man to cold-blooded murder? Fighting in a war is one thing, killing in a war, even; but how do you get to the point where you're actually considering dragging someone into a dark room somewhere and hanging them bodily from a pair of meat hooks - "Oy!" John bumps into Sherlock, who has stopped short at the bottom of the stairs.

"John," the detective says simply, his eyes on the upper landing.

John follows his gaze and sees Lestrade shutting the door behind himself and moving with no small difficulty toward the stairs. He looks rather disorientated, and John finds himself rather worried. "Greg?" He pushes past Sherlock and climbs the stairs to head off the DI. Not quick enough. Lestrade either misses his footing or is just unsteady, it's not clear, but all of a sudden he's lurching forward. John takes the last few stairs two at a time and braces Greg up under the arm. He can feel Sherlock behind him suddenly as well, with a hand in the small of his back, ready to catch him should he and Lestrade both go tumbling down the staircase.

"Where are you going?" John demands irritably, levering the DI back onto the top step with some difficulty.

"Escaping," is Greg's inexplicable reply.

"Escaping?" John echoes. He feels a bit like a trained parrot recently. "From…?"

Greg makes a vague gesture at the door to unit B, and slumps a little on John's shoulder.

Delirious? He didn't seem _that_ ill. "Hey. Stand up. Come on. I'm afraid you aren't going anywhere." From beyond the DI's bulk, John can see Sherlock brush past and unlock the door, pushing it open before coming back to help John with Greg.

"The case," Greg whines. "The blood."

"Meat hooks!" Sherlock merrily chirps.

John interjects: "Not now!" The two of them half-drag Greg back to the sofa and dump him down on it. John glares down at the DI while Sherlock goes back to shut the door. "Where in the hell were you going?"

"Yard," Greg replies.

"I'm sure that would have gone great." Carefully, John presses the back of his hand to Greg's ashen face. His skin is so hot it's almost painful. "Jesus, Greg, you could have called! Have you anything else going on - coughing, pain? Vomiting?"

"No."

"Yes," Sherlock calls from the bathroom. John hears the toilet flush.

Greg grunts his displeasure.

"Okay, I lied earlier. You are as bad as he is. Worse, possibly. Ridiculous," John huffs. "Lie down."

"The case - " Greg insists.

John pushes him back with a firm hand on his chest. "Nope."

* * *

><p>Greg does not consider himself a particularly brilliant man. Not thick or stupid or anything, mind you, but definitely not genius-level intellect. That's under the best of circumstances. Right now, though, he's not even sure he'd be able to dress himself if need be, and thinks it's very possible he'd put his shoes on his head and his hat on his feet. His world is upside-down.<p>

He feels dreadful. He has the chills and his stomach is in knots and he can't seem to form a coherent thought. At one point while he was alone in the flat, he trudged all the way to Sherlock's room, looking for his cat, before he remembered he doesn't have a cat. Then he thought he'd go to the crime scene, but John said no, and now here he is and he feels _dreadful_.

John is talking. Greg isn't sure what's being said, but he feels cool hands against his skin - first his face and then his wrist and then his belly. He groans at the sudden swell of pain through his abdomen and pushes John's hands away. Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, he remembers something. "Sherlock. What about meat hooks?" He blinks his blurry vision clear and tries to crane his neck to see him past John's shoulder.

"The victim was positioned upon meat hooks and bled out like a shekhted cow," Sherlock reports dutifully.

Greg's stomach rolls. "Shekhted?" he repeats, trying to fixate on something other than the image of a man bleeding out upside-down.

He can almost hear Sherlock's eyes rolling at his stupidity. "Shechita. Jewish kosher slaughter. Deep slice to the throat," he explains, sounding put-out.

"Now's not really the time," John warns Sherlock off.

It doesn't matter. Greg can feel himself slipping. The force of John's actions and orders was enough to lay him out flat, and the sofa is very comfortable, the leather nice and cool; he can feel his eyelids growing heavy. "Should probably get home," he mumbles uselessly.

John laughs, flaring the dull ache in Greg's head to a fever pitch. "Not sure how you're going to manage that, mate."

"Ugh."

* * *

><p>John's brow is furrowed as he watches Greg drift off. He straightens, stretches, and scratches at his five o'clock shadow.<p>

Across the room, Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh. "He's not _dying_, John." He fiddles with the dials on the microscope, even though there is no slide in it.

For a moment, John thinks about giving Sherlock a lecture about the hippocratic oath and empathy, and trying to make him understand that since Lestrade is his friend, too, he cares about his health, so on and so forth, but knows it will likely fall on deaf ears. Then he realises. "Hang on… you're jealous." John is all but crowing at having deduced the consulting detective.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes, predictably.

John's suspicions are confirmed. "Ha. My concern is all well and good until it's directed at someone else."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You know what I think?"

"Yes," drawls Sherlock, clearly bored.

"I think you like it. You like it when I chase you around the flat and pester you about food and rest and the state of your health."

"Honestly, John, considering the obscene number of investigations that you have _obstructed_ with your constant mother-henning, I really don't see how you are reaching that conclusion." Sherlock rolls his eyes again and turns his back, his long fingers sifting through case paperwork.

The smirk on John's face might be just a tiny bit self-satisfied and smug.

* * *

><p>Greg sleeps through the better part of the day. On some level, he's aware of this, and he's also aware of the fact that he's still at Baker Street and not his own place, but he's too miserable to care.<p>

He's swimming. Swimming is nice, he likes swimming, but this is mud and not water and he's not getting anywhere. He keeps pushing, but his muscles are screaming and he can't see where he's going. He claws through the murky sludge, gasping for breath with each stroke. He can see light each time his fingers break through, but those tiny pinpoints of hope never get closer, and there is silt in his eyes and his mouth. It tastes like copper.

Then, suddenly, he's standing in Baker Street. The flat is empty of furniture. The body of the bloodless man is lying naked and face down in the middle of the sitting room. Sherlock's voice says something about fingerprint bruises and embittered brothers-in-law. John's voice joins in and says something about calling the police.

"I _am_ the police," Greg points out, but they don't seem to hear him. "Where are you?" he wonders aloud to the empty flat.

* * *

><p>Lestrade's fever is worrying. It's fairly rare for a healthy adult to suffer a fever so bad that it becomes dangerous, John knows, but he doesn't like the way Greg seems borderline delirious. He struggles in and out of wakefulness throughout the afternoon and into the evening before finally settling into a restless sleep punctuated with vague mumbling.<p>

Out of the blue, Sherlock lets a petri dish fall onto the table with a clatter, and slumps back in his chair, looking thoroughly put-out.

"What is it?" John asks. He is sitting on the coffee table, placing a cool flannel on Greg's forehead and chest, and looks up to watch his flatmate fume.

"Straightforward. He was beating his wife."

"Who?"

"The victim," Sherlock groans. "Craig Daniel. He was murdered by his psychopathic brother-in-law. Vengeance killing. Fingerprint bruises on the throat and wrists, not visible to the naked eye because of the blood loss. Straightforward."

"I'll call the police," John offers, pulling out his mobile.

"No. I need to test a theory first. I have to be certain." Sherlock stands and gathers his mobile and suit jacket. "Coming?"

John glances at Greg, who groans and turns his head.

"He's not _dying_," Sherlock says again.

"Sorry. I think I'd better stay."

* * *

><p>Murder.<p>

Greg is thinking about murder. He's seen a lot of murder. But then, when your job is to police a city as huge and diverse and teeming with life as London, you're bound to see some murder. Now, usually, it's accompanied by a whole lot of blood, but clearly there are some exceptions.

Meat hooks.

Greg winces, his dream-world self conjuring up an image of a man hanging naked and bleeding from industrial packing plant meat hooks. The sight is uncomfortable to say the least. Sweat beads on his forehead and his stomach churns and roils. Caught somewhere between asleep and awake, he hears himself groan, his voice rough and hoarse. He tries to speak, but he's not sure if any words come out. They must have done, though: he hears John reply.

"Shh," John soothes. "Sherlock has it all in hand."

Somehow, that doesn't make Greg feel much better. But there isn't a thing he can do about it.

* * *

><p>Dark is gathering on Baker Street when Lestrade's fever finally breaks. John has unceremoniously dropped himself into his armchair, the telly remote in one hand and his phone in the other (<em>new text message - S Holmes - <em>_**Donovan in charge of investigation now. Kill me please. SH**_) and the milky glow of the television casts deep shadows over his face. He hears Greg sigh and looks over to find him drenched in sweat and stirring uncomfortably - his temperature is coming down finally. John drops both items onto the side table and stands, crosses the room, bends over his patient. "Greg? You with me?"

In response, the DI screws up his face and blinks his eyes open, his gaze foggy and confused. "John?"

"S'alright. How are you feeling?"

"Disgusting."

John helps him sit up, and hands him a cup of lukewarm tea. "Slowly," he urges, and watches as his instructions are heeded. "Sherlock and Sally are in Chiswick serving an arrest warrant."

Greg looks up sharply. "What?"

"Yeah. Sherlock sorted it all out this afternoon. Bit anticlimactic, really."

Lestrade nods his agreement. "If you go in for that sort of thing," he adds in jest, but then wraps an arm around his middle.

"Easy there." John watches his face pale slightly, but is relieved when his colour returns quickly enough.

Suddenly, the door bangs open and Sherlock sweeps in. "That was annoying," he states flatly, kicking the door shut. His eyes alight on Greg, sitting companionably beside John on the sofa. "Oh. Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, thanks for - "

"Good." Sherlock drops his phone and his jacket down on the table. "That was getting dull."

John and Greg exchange a look and together roll their eyes heavenward.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thanks, everyone, for your well wishes and kind words and for all the congratulations sent my way. For those who have asked, the baby is a girl and we called her Ruby. :) I'll post pics on Tumblr later.

As to this story - yes, I took the meat hooks and drained blood idea straight from _Dexter_. If you haven't watched it, you should!


	8. Torment, Pt 2

**Characters**: Sherlock, John

**POV**: Sherlock

**Prompt**: John discovers that Sherlock was tortured at the beginning of TEH.

**Submitted by**: ScribeOfRED

**PART 2**

* * *

><p>Three days pass after the delicate conversation at the surgery, and even though John and Sherlock see each other for a few hours on each of those days, the subject is not brought up again. Sherlock finds this disconcerting, because his limited understand of human nature and his rather extensive understanding of John Watson had led him to believe that it would be a subject of the utmost importance upon their return to Baker Street that very same day. However, they pass the time in companionable quiet and chitchat before John goes home to Mary, and Sherlock is left bewildered and alone. The next day, Mary accompanies John to visit him, so there, that's why he doesn't bring it up then. But the next day and the day after that, John comes alone - yet still the subject is never broached. Why?<p>

Sherlock examines John on the third day, scrutinizing him while he helps with the tedium of cross-referencing files on a case he's working on. John doesn't notice, John never does, and Sherlock watches him openly. He watches the way he types (_quick but methodical, fingers coming down hard on the keys, left pinky splayed each time the 's' key is pressed)_, sees the lines between his brows (_stress; wedding preparations)_, reads the set of his posture (_ramrod straight, he's had a good night's sleep)_, notices the jaunty tone of his voice (_sex, obviously)_. It takes some doing, but Sherlock finally lands on the Thing. The Thing that tells him John is upset with him. (_He stares at me when he thinks I'm not looking, stares hard, not fondly. Frowns. Fidgets. Sighs. Angry, irritated. Not generalised; specific. Me. His avoidance of the topic of Serbia indicates that his anger has to do with that - makes sense, I'm his friend and I've been hurt, sentiment - but the anger is clearly directed _at_ me and not _for _me, which begs the question of why.)_

At this point, he knows he has two choices: he can ask John what is wrong, or he can wait it out. If he waits, it will either go away on its own or it'll bubble over. Recently, John isn't known for his ability to keep his temper in check. Sherlock's aching ribs remember a certain night on which John tackled him in a restaurant. On the other hand, if he asks outright, John's anger will definitely be triggered, and thus the odds are like this: ask and stand a 99% chance of fighting with John; or wait and stand a 50% chance of the whole thing just blowing over. (_Obvious.)_ He decides to wait it out.

He doesn't have to wait long.

Four days after the conversation at the surgery, John is checking Sherlock's stitches in the sitting room at Baker Street. The set of his jaw says he's in a foul mood, and his clinical touch is colder than normal, brisker. He doesn't speak, so Sherlock fills the silence on his own.

"...And it's been said that bee populations are indicative of a biome's overall health, but I've not had a chance to research that yet. There is some amount of logic to the idea, but as you can imagine, credible sources of information on the subject are limited and I've no personal experience as yet with bees."

John grunts, preoccupied, his fingers exploring the bruised flesh of Sherlock's side.

"I wonder if Mrs. Hudson would object to an apiary on the roof…"

"Dammit, Sherlock!" John straightens abruptly, stepping back, and crosses his arms.

"John?" Sherlock braces himself. John's pot has boiled over, as he predicted. He grinds his teeth and tries to push down the regret of not having asked John outright days ago.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John demands, his voice harsh and low. He walks away toward the fireplace, then circles back and stares at the detective over the coffee table. "Why. Didn't. You. Tell me?"

Sherlock can't help himself. "About the bees? I only just learned about it last night - "

"Forget the bloody bees!" John's outburst seems to rattle the walls, but Sherlock knows that's absurd. "I'm not talking about the damn bees, Sherlock. I'm talking about Serbia."

"I did tell you - "

"Four days ago! Four bloody days ago you told me about Serbia, and only because you had a piece of _shrapnel_ coming out of your _skin_!"

Oh. Oh! That's why John is upset about Serbia - he didn't tell him sooner. Is that all? Sighing, Sherlock sits up on the sofa, smoothes his shirt back down over his stomach, and shrugs his dressing gown on. "It didn't come up…" He swallows hard. "...organically."

John opens his mouth and closes it again, like a fish. He seems lost for words. "Organically?"

Sherlock feels panic welling up in his chest, but his outward appearance is calm approaching to apathy. He reaches for the catalogues in his brain, shuffling through conversation after conversation with John over the past month. Yes, he's absolutely certain that there was no point at which he could have just thrown in, _"Oh, by the way, some Serbians stuck hot pokers into my back for a few days, what do you think about that?"_ How could he have been expected to bring up such a topic? And what was the point, anyway? What's done is done - isn't it? What does it matter, what relevance does it have to here and now?

"You've been back a month," John continues. "Why didn't you tell me?"

A quick scan of John's face - _(Tight-lipped, tense, eyes narrowed - he's furious)_ - tells Sherlock he needs to tread carefully. "I... didn't know how to approach you about it," he tries.

John is silent.

Sherlock continues, "Please understand that I wasn't specifically _avoiding_ telling you." He steels himself for a tirade.

"Are we friends?"

He's taken aback by the question, but doesn't let John see him falter. "Of course," he says confidently. "I've always valued your - "

"Then you should have told me a month ago. This is the sort of thing friends tell each other, Sherlock. By the way, I was tortured in Serbia, I'm not okay!"

The pieces are starting to come together. John isn't angry; he's hurt. "I _am_ okay. I was going to tell you." This is only a half-truth. Sherlock had been considering it, but hadn't decided whether or not it was worth the conversation. He tilts his head and watches John's face carefully. "I am telling you now."

"What else haven't you told me?" asks John.

Sherlock chooses to answer honestly. "A lot."

John's face falls.

"It was two years. You know my methods; you know what I was doing while I was away."

For a few moments, John says nothing. He takes a few deep breaths, runs his fingers back through his hair, and shakes his head. Then he rounds the coffee table and sits down beside Sherlock, his eyes on the opposite wall. "The scars. Are they all from Serbia?"

"No."

John's face goes through at least three changes, too fast for Sherlock to keep track of what emotions are attached.

Sherlock holds his breath for a few moments and thinks. John wants to know, so Sherlock will tell him. He just hopes they don't both regret it afterwards. Sucking in a breath, he slides his dressing gown off and pulls his t-shirt off over his head. He starts with the wound in his side that bears John's neat handiwork, indicating it with a careful finger. "Serbia, ice pick. You knew that one. Two broken ribs underneath." His hand travels upward, to the deep scar curving around his deltoid muscle. "Also Serbia. Broken bottle." Then to a tidy little scar on his collarbone. "Germany, fence post." Then to a ragged two-inch-long scar on his chest, just left of centre. "Sweden, fell out of a window." And on it goes, as John watches in silence: "China, careless accident with a rusty knife. America, grazed by a bullet. Canada, fell out of another window. Brazil - "

"Stop," John says through his teeth.

Sherlock stops and waits for instructions.

John is looking at him strangely. His face is tight and unmoving. "What happened in Serbia - did it happen other places too?"

After a moment, Sherlock understands that John is trying to be delicate, in his way. "No," he replies. "Serbia was unique. I needed to confirm that the last remnants of Moriarty's network had been destroyed. I broke into a secure operations base outside Ruma. I was discovered." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "I've slipped up before, but not like this. I'd underestimated them. It was a miscalculation, John, that's all."

"You could have been killed."

"No. Mycroft wormed his way in shortly after my capture. No doubt he'd been monitoring my movements. He wouldn't have allowed that to happen."

John stares down at the floor, then hands Sherlock his shirt, looking anywhere but at him. "This has to stop," he says firmly, grinding his teeth as he stares down at the floor. He drags his eyes up to Sherlock's at last. "It has to stop now."

As he pulls on his shirt, the detective frowns. "It has stopped. It stopped in Serbia, it's over, John. There's nothing left to - "

"No," John's harsh tone cuts through Sherlock's reply, his blue eyes piercing and intense. "No, I mean - this. I mean. You, doing things that can get you killed. You're careless and reckless and you don't give a second thought to the consequences of - of - falling out of windows or getting caught by Serbian black ops."

"I know my limits," Sherlock replies, feeling defensive suddenly. "I've told you before, it's - "

"Transport," the doctor finishes for him. "No, I know. And it has to stop. Sherlock… Maybe, to you, being captured and tortured and running around with broken ribs is fine. Maybe so. But… it's not, to other people around you. To… to me, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Greg… I don't care that you don't care. You're hurting other people, though, and… it has to stop."

_What does he want, for me to stop working?_ Sherlock is starting to feel indignant now. "This coming from someone whose interest is only piqued by the word _dangerous_."

"That's not what I meant. I just meant that - if we're friends, Sherlock, and I like to think we are - if we're friends, then don't risk your life for the hell of it. If we're friends, then let me help - tell me things, like _by the way I've two broken ribs, so please don't tackle me in a restaurant_."

Surprising even himself, Sherlock laughs. Relief spreads through him now as John cracks a slight smile too. "You were angry, you deserved to have a go at me."

"Or four."

"Or four." A brief pause. "I wasn't sure how much to say to you. I didn't want to risk upsetting you, or getting in between you and Mary."

"She likes you. If you do something stupid and die and break her heart, I'll kill you."

Sherlock nods and pulls his dressing gown on. "Noted."

John has relaxed now, that stony look gone from his face. He looks at his friend, studies him in a way that makes Sherlock squirm a little inside. "Listen, though, Sherlock, are you… are you really okay, though? I mean, honestly. Are you?"

Something dark moves through the detective. Thinking back to it, he can feel the bone-deep weariness, the heaviness of the manacles on his wrists, the heat of the infection spreading through the wound in his shoulder. His torturer's voice echoes in his mind. _Remember sleep?_

Sighing, stretching, Sherlock stands, casts about the flat for a distraction. "Let's play Cluedo," he says. "It's been an age."


	9. Right as Rain

**Characters: **Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson

**POV:** John

**Prompt:** Sherlock's recovery after being drugged by Irene Adler in S2E1 "Scandal."

**Submitted by:** popular request

**Author's Note: **I've had a lot of requests to do this one, so here it is, finally. A little humour, a little H/C, a lot of love - please enjoy!

* * *

><p>"<em>What have you given him?!"<em>

"_Oh, don't worry. I've used it on loads of my friends. He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. Makes for a very unattractive corpse."_

* * *

><p>John can hear the sirens as he kneels beside Sherlock, watching helplessly as he struggles against the effects of - whatever it is Irene's given him. Probably a cocktail of things, if her reference to recreational use is to be trusted. A sedative of some sort, to be sure - ketamine, maybe? Valium? Something else too.<p>

A resounding _thump_ gets John's attention and he sees that his flatmate has ceased his efforts to get up off the floor; instead, his head is lolling as he clings to consciousness.

"S'okay, Sherlock, relax," John says, thumbing his eyes open one at a time. His pupils are wide. "Hey, can you hear me?"

"Mnh," is Sherlock's reply. His gaze has wandered toward the ceiling now, flitting amongst several different points.

John looks up to see what he's staring at and doesn't see anything of note.

"Puppies," Sherlock says, frowning.

So, a hallucinogenic as well, then?

The door bursts inward before John can answer.

It's Lestrade who enters the guestroom first, decked out in kevlar and clutching a nine millimeter, and his eyes go as wide as saucers when he sees John kneeling on the floor beside the prone detective. John realizes suddenly that Lestrade is here on a 'shots fired' call, and that Sherlock is half conscious on the floor, and how that must look to him.

"He's fine," the doctor says quickly. "Just drugged out of his mind."

The DI looks relieved, but it shortly turns to confusion. "Wait - what?"

"It's a long story," John sighs, rolling his eyes. The Woman's theatrics are on par with Sherlock's own - it's amazing how quickly something like that can get very, very old.

Inexplicably, Sherlock giggles, and both men turn their attention to him. "Clever," he says, then snorts loudly and allows his eyes to fall shut.

John and Greg exchange a glance, mirrored expressions a mix of amusement and confusion. They each take an arm and haul the detective to his feet. "Who's clever?" John asks, knowing that while Sherlock is probably not in any danger, he'll feel a little more at ease with the whole thing if he can keep him talking for a bit.

Sherlock's head lolls and suddenly his face is very close to John's. He smells like tea and sugar, with a hint of coppery blood from where his cheek was split open. "You."

Greg snorts.

John rolls his eyes. "You've never said that before."

The detective makes a great effort, which elicits a groan, and manages to turn his head to the other side, where Greg is bolstering him up with an arm around his waist. "I _haaaaave _done. Haven't I?"

"Oh, sure." Lestrade gives a nod as they drag Sherlock toward the door. "Actually, I think you wrote your dissertation on it."

"Don't encourage him." John dumps his armful of consulting detective onto the DI and precedes them out onto the pavement to hail a cab.

"Should he go to hospital?" asks Greg, brows knitting, now with both arms wrapped around the limp detective.

John shakes his head. "No. He hasn't got any allergies; it's just a waiting game til it wears off. Whatever it is." He returns to his flatmate's side as the taxi pulls up to the kerb, and takes his share of Sherlock's weight again.

"You don't know what it is?" Greg's voice is filled with alarm.

"Nope," answers John, with bitterness. The two of them dump Sherlock into the backseat. "He'll be fine, though. If she'd wanted him dead, she had the opportunity in the safe room. I'll… explain later."

As John gets into the cab beside his flatmate, Greg hesitates on the kerb, his eyes going from Sherlock to the crime scene and back again, his hand on the open door of the taxi.

John pokes his head out. "He's gonna be fine, I promise."

Sherlock giggles weakly.

"No, I know," Lestrade mumbles, unstrapping the vest so that he can access his phone. "I'm just not sure I want to miss this." There's a wry smirk on his face. He seems to make a decision, then makes a quick excuse to a uniformed officer, and climbs into the back with the other two.

Smiling in spite of himself, John gives the driver their address and the car eases away from the flat. As he settles back, Sherlock leans over and rests his head on his shoulder as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Greg takes a photo with his phone.

"Don't," John scowls. "This is the last thing the internet pep squad needs."

"Puppies," Sherlock pipes up.

John shakes his head. "I said, 'pep squad.'"

"Corgis, specifically. Pembroke… something or other. Welsh! Something. D'you know why they're so short? It's to keep from being kicked by cows." His eyes slide shut and he sighs heavily.

Lestrade snorts. "Okay. John's clever and corgis are short and, er, Welsh." He's still holding his phone up in Sherlock's direction, and John realises abruptly that he's filming.

"John's not Welsh," mumbles Sherlock. He turns his face toward John's arm, screwing up his eyes tightly.

Pleadingly, John looks to Greg, but the DI is too busy giggling into his phone screen to be of any help.

It's a long drive back to Baker Street.

* * *

><p>"<em>Yes<em>, you need to go to bed, because the sooner you sleep this off, the better, for all of us."

John and Greg have managed to wrestle Sherlock out of his shoes and coat and have even successfully kept him from ruining whatever experiment is running in a petri dish on the sideboard, but it's become clear that he's a danger to himself and everyone around him in this state, so now they are trying to convince him to just go to bed.

"I don't feel well," Sherlock is grumbling now. It's a strange sentence coming from him. He hardly ever complains of bodily discomforts, on the rare occasion that they even occur.

"All the more reason to go to bed," Lestrade points out sensibly.

A cheerful "Yoo-hoo" interrupts them, and Mrs Hudson lets herself into the flat. She stops up short beside the coatrack at the sight of Sherlock being more or less manhandled by both John and Greg from either side, however. Her hands go to her mouth in surprise. "Oh!"

"No," John begins, heading off the rest of her protest before it can even cross her lips. "It isn't that. He's, er - not well. And not listening."

"Well, it's none of my business if - "

"He was drugged!" John blurts out in an attempt to avoid further accusations. "It's a long story, Mrs Hudson, I'm just trying to get him into bed."

On the other side of their charge, Greg snorts. Sherlock laughs too, without even knowing what he's laughing at. (He mumbles something about John being Welsh again.)

John fumes silently.

Sherlock whines nonverbally.

Mrs Hudson places her hands on her hips. "Sherlock Holmes, do as you're told!"

The detective goes practically limp between the two men, and John finds himself staring in wonder at his landlady. Only the increased weight of his patient distracts him, and he and Greg manoeuvre Sherlock awkwardly down the hall to his room, where they manage to get the tangle of long, floppy limbs safely into bed.

"Should we…" Greg starts, eyeing Sherlock's fully-dressed form.

"Nope," John replies decisively. They've gotten him out of his shoes and coat, and if he wrinkles his Armani blazer by sleeping in it, well - John can't bring himself to care. He yanks the covers up over the detective.

"No," moans Sherlock, lifting his head off the pillow.

"Sleep!" John orders, pushing him back down. "You'll feel better if you do."

"Unh." Sherlock's head drops down again.

_Thank God_. John and Greg make a quick getaway.

* * *

><p>"<em>No, no, no, no - ugh, back to bed! Just sleep. You'll be fine in the morning."<em>

"_Of course I'll be fine, I _am_ fine. I'm perfectly fine."_

"_Of course you are."_

* * *

><p>It's just after two in the morning, and John starts awake, realising suddenly that he must have dozed off in his chair some hours ago. The fire has died down to a soft ember glow, but its comfortable warmth is still spilling out through the sitting room. He can't decide what's woken him - until he hears the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall. Sherlock. Again. He groans and gets to his feet, preparing to escort his flatmate back to bed for the second time tonight. "Sherlock, I told you - " He stops up short when he actually sees Sherlock, who is stumbling with purpose toward the washroom. "You okay?"<p>

Sherlock grunts and staggers into the bathroom, shutting the door with a snap.

John hears the distinct sounds of retching and decides to wait in the corridor.

After a time, the toilet flushes and the tap runs and shuts off again. Sherlock emerges, looking haggard, his face an unnatural shade of yellow-green. John steps back into view. "Hey. You okay?"

The detective pauses in the corridor, using the wall for support. He nods, but he's frowning. "What… what happened…?"

They've already had this conversation. This will be the third iteration. "You don't remember? You were drugged?"

Sherlock nods.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hungover," the detective replies. He wobbles a little, and John closes the gap between them.

"Careful. Dizzy?" John steadies him easily.

More nodding, then more wobbling. Sherlock groans and clutches his stomach.

"Back to bed," the doctor orders.

Sherlock scrubs at his uninjured eye with the back of a fist. "I'll be fine in the morning," he mutters.

"Yes," John agrees. "Right as rain."


	10. Scientia Potestas Est

**Characters:** John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Magnussen

**POV:** Mycroft, John, Sherlock

**Prompt:** Sherlock is still in hospital after being shot by Mary, when someone pays him an unexpected visit. John and Mycroft witness this terrible spectacle.

**Submitted by:** Thanangst

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This entire chapter is a big fat SPOILER for the deleted scene from "His Last Vow" off the Series 3 DVD. It is literally transcripted word for word right into the following story. It is available for viewing on YouTube. Warning: LONG chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Control Room<strong>

The small room is dark, but filled with noise and activity. Technicians chatter in urgent, hushed voices; fingers fly over keyboards in a cacophony of data-gathering; computers whir and hum beneath the din. Mycroft paces at the back of the room, his shiny Italian wingtips clicking heavily, ominously across the tile floor.

"Increased security detail," he says crisply, as Anthea dutifully types the dictated notes into her phone. "Extra surveillance at all entrances. And I want to know how he got in - _now_."

"Sir." Anthea halts her employer's pacing with a hand on his arm. Her gaze is directing his attention to a screen on the far wall.

Mycroft follows her line of sight, and immediately his face turns white. The technicians have noticed too - a wave of murmurs washes through the room as one by one they look first to the screen, then begin typing madly at their terminals, redoubling their efforts to find something - anything - that might tell them why Charles Augustus Magnussen has wormed his way to the door of Sherlock Holmes' hospital room.

"Out," the elder Holmes orders, his voice calm and authoritative. Several of the technicians look up in alarm, and Anthea's eyes go wide.

"Sir," she asks, "shouldn't we - "

"No," he intones, as the room empties quickly. He and Anthea are left alone in the dark, their faces starkly illuminated by the harsh light of the screen on the wall. The servers hum like a legion of worker bees. "Post a team at the nurses' station. Level one. Put them on standby. I need to know what his purpose is."

Anthea's phone is pressed to her ear before Mycroft even finishes speaking. Reliable, steady, efficient Anthea. She steps away, murmuring quiet, succinct orders in code.

Inside, Mycroft can feel his heart racing as he watches. The screen is split into fourths - a live camera feed shows Sherlock's room from two angles, as well as the hallway outside and the ICU nurses' station. Simultaneously, Magnussen arrives at Sherlock's door and Mycroft's own response team assembles at the nurses' station - casual as you like, they look like nurses on break. Mycroft steps forward, keys a command into the terminal, and drops himself into a chair as the screen fills with a single feed: Sherlock's room, shown from the camera installed into the air conditioning unit in the upper corner, furthest from the door. From this angle, he can see most of the room. The small blind spots are covered by the camera on the opposite corner - with just a few keystrokes, he can switch to that one as needed. Total control. Or so he tells himself, despite the frightfully rapid cadence of his pulse.

_On-screen, Magnussen slips inside. "They're not all from me," he says by way of greeting, indicating the flowers surrounding Sherlock's bed. The detective is lying still, his faculties hampered by pain and drugs, but recognition sparks in his eyes almost immediately._

Mycroft grips the armrest of his chair, white-knuckled and tense, as he watches Magnussen approach his brother's bedside.

"_The struggling carnations are from Scotland Yard," he continues. "And the single rose is from… W. And the black wreath? C-Block, Pentonville. I'm not sure the intent was entirely kindly." Magnussen sits down in the chair beside the bed and rests his hands on Sherlock's arm, petting it fondly, lightly._

From behind him, Mycroft hears Anthea make a sound under her breath, a mix of disgust and surprise. She opens her mouth to speak, but Mycroft holds up a hand. "Not yet," he says, his voice low. He can feel Anthea's urge to protest, but she holds her tongue. Mycroft's heart continues thundering in his chest - truth be told he, too, wants nothing more than to give the order that would send his standby team straight to that room to drag Magnussen kicking and screaming away from his little brother… but he knows he shouldn't. Can't. He _needs_ to know.

_Sherlock's heart rate ramps up on the monitors, his breathing takes a subtle uptick. Magnussen slides his hands under Sherlock's forearm, lifting his hand, cradling it, inspecting it. "Oh, I covet your hands, Mr. Holmes. Though, since you've survived, I suppose you get to keep them."_

Anthea makes a strangled sound. "Sir!"

Mycroft shakes his head, struggling to maintain his own composure. "Not yet," he breathes, leaning close to the screen, his right hand wrapped painfully tight around the armrest.

"_Look at them," Magnussen says, admiring each long finger. "A musician's hands. An artist's." Boldly, he presses his lips to the back of Sherlock's hand in a reverent kiss. Then he turns his head, looks into Sherlock's eyes. "A woman's." The detective breathes heavily through his nose, paralysed by drugs and pain and - fear? Yes, fear. He clings to consciousness, desperately afraid to lose to the drugs and be entirely at this man's mercy. He hasn't got any. _

The elder Holmes feels guilt welling in his chest. Part of him is screaming - _get him out, GetHimOutNOW_ - but he knows he can't. The extraction team is waiting across the hall, he reminds himself. Ready at a moment's notice. Information is power, and he needs to know what the most dangerous man in the world is doing here, now; what his involvement is with Sherlock.

_By way of some miracle, Sherlock manages to pull his hand away, and Magnussen lets it drop back onto the thin hospital blanket. "Apologies," Magnussen says, brushing his fingers together, "for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it." Carefully, gently, he places the pulse oxymeter back on Sherlock's middle finger. He takes a breath. "Having shot you, the woman you know as Mary Watson left without killing me - which is odd… because that was the reason she came." _

Mycroft snaps his fingers quickly, but doesn't take his eyes off the screen. Anthea nods and gets out her mobile again, stepping away as she speaks hurriedly into it.

_Suddenly, Magnussen is inches away from Sherlock's face, their noses practically brushing as he whispers to him, just barely picked up over the surveillance microphone: "I didn't pass on her identity to the police. Information like that is too… valuable to be shared." Sherlock's rapid breathing is clearly audible. His eyes, barely slits up to this point, are wide and staring up at Magnussen's, though they are losing focus as his energy reserves are drained. Magnussen's fingers brush his arm. "Wouldn't you agree?" he murmurs, and steps away as Sherlock's eyes roll back and the lids press closed. He's gone before the detective fully loses consciousness, the door shutting behind him with a snap. _

"Oh, God," Mycroft exhales. "My God, Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into?" He lifts his phone to his ear.

* * *

><p><strong>Baker Street<strong>

"I'm not sure he'll be able to stomach chicken casserole."

"No. Definitely not. But Mrs. Hudson made it specifically for him, so we'd better pretend to take it along or it'll break her poor heart."

John and Mary are standing in Sherlock's kitchen, the two of them gathering what few creature comforts can be transported to the hospital. It sounds as though he'll be in hospital for some time yet - he pulled through surgery, yes, but he isn't out of the woods. John knows this better than anyone, but the distraction of this activity (Mary's idea) is boosting his morale.

"Okay then," Mary sighs, pawing through the large canvas bag to take inventory. "Pyjamas, socks, hairbrush, laptop, cold case file."

John heaves the chunky stoneware dish out of the refrigerator and sets it on the table next to the bag. "Chicken casserole."

"What are we going to do with it, though?" Mary asks, peeking beneath the lid.

"Eat it, in all likelihood. It's actually quite good. Oh - did you get the cord for his phone?"

"Think so." Mary nods and digs through the bag to make sure.

John can't help staring at her. Despite their sleepless night and so much time spent at the hospital, she looks well put-together: her blond hair is neatly pinned back, and she's dressed in easy layers with a soft brown cardigan and a cream-coloured top over boyfriend jeans and tan brogues. She isn't wearing makeup and hasn't had nearly enough rest, but her eyes are bright. She radiates strength and energy. She's his rock.

"What?" And now she's looking at him in concern. She gives a sort of half smile. "You okay?"

"Yeah," John replies. "Just… yeah. It's been a weird couple of… yeah. I'm fine."

With a knowing nod, Mary closes the space between them and runs her fingers back through his hair. "S'gonna be alright, though. Gets better from here."

Her nails against his scalp feel good, and John lets out a sigh. "Hopefully," he says on a sigh, the pragmatist in him rearing its head. "There's still secondary infection to worry about, and - "

"No." Mary's index finger presses itself into his lips. The scent of peaches fills his nostrils.

John frowns. "What about you? You okay? You don't need to be here, you know, you could go home and rest."

Pretty blue eyes roll heavenward. "I'm pregnant, not terminally ill."

His phone rings before he has a chance to lecture her about the increased demands of pregnancy. He digs it out of his back pocket: _blocked number_. "Hello?"

A familiar voice replies without prelude, "Go outside and get into the car."

"Mycroft!" John says with evident relief. "I've been trying to get hold of you. Listen - "

"I already know, John. _Really_. Please get into the car."

"Why don't you just meet me at the - "

"The car, Doctor Watson." The line dies.

John pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it in consternation. Looking up, he catches Mary's questioning gaze. "Mycroft finally phoned back," he explains unnecessarily.

Mary blinks owlishly back at him. "'Bout bloody time. Well?"

"I've been _summoned_," the doctor states. He sighs. The world runs on Mycroft Time and he knows it. No choice but to obey - no doubt one of his assistants will be coming in to collect him presently, if he doesn't.

"I'll handle this," Mrs. Watson says of the bag and the crockery, her tone one of finality. "Go ahead."

"I'm sure it's nothing. He'll just be wanting a debrief. I'll call you when I'm done." John pulls her in close with an arm around her waist. He can feel the tiny swell of her belly pressed against his stomach. He kisses her lips before dashing out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Control Room<strong>

John is more than a little surprised to be escorted to the very hospital he'd been planning to go to all this time. Actually, he's more than a little annoyed, too. "I could have just finished what I was doing and met him here," he rants at an unresponsive Anthea. She's off her phone - for once - but she's no more conversational than normal. With a beckoning hand, she leads him inside.

But, again to John's surprise, they don't board the elevator for the ICU. Instead, Anthea precedes him into a stairwell and begins climbing up. Frowning, John swallows his protests and follows her. He knows it's pointless to ask where they're going - she won't say, and anyway, he'll find out soon enough.

When they come out of the stairs, John figures they are just across from the ICU. Perhaps Mycroft wishes to speak in private and has reserved a conference room. Perhaps he's going to lecture - again - that the boys should stay away from Magnussen if they know what's good for them. In fact, he's steeling himself for an argument as Anthea leads him into a side room separated from the public area by a locked door, which she opens with a keycard.

Irritation turns to surprise as John enters upon what looks very much like a military operation control room. Terminals have been set up in neat rows, each one with a specific duty. There's a heavy desk at the far end of the room, with a tall leather chair behind it. On the wall is a display screen, and a surveillance image of Sherlock's hospital room is splashed across it. The room is empty of people, except for Mycroft, Anthea, and himself. Momentarily, however, Mycroft waves Anthea away and she exits with a deferential nod, shutting the door quietly behind herself.

Despite the over-the-top display, John's patience has worn dangerously thin. "What is going on?" he demands, frowning up at the screen on the wall. "What is this - security footage?"

"Precisely." Mycroft is leaning back against one of the terminals, his arms crossed over his narrow chest, his brow knitted. "Without knowing who shot Sherlock, ensuring his safety from the culprit is of the utmost priority," the elder Holmes explains. "However, there has been a… development."

This gets John's attention straightaway, Mycroft's tone sending a chill through him. "Wait - what? What development?"

Mycroft gestures to an open chair. "Sit."

"No - tell me."

Turning, Mycroft keys a command into one of the terminals, and the footage on the screen jumps and settles. "The audio feedback is of a low quality," he warns. "However, I think you will be able to understand the gist of what is being said."

Curiosity gives way to trepidation as John watches the screen. _Sherlock is lying still, asleep or nearly, monitors beeping steadily away. The door to his room opens - unsurprising, considering vitals rounds in the ICU are conducted quite regularly, but after a moment, it becomes clear that the visitor is no nurse or doctor. Charles Augustus Magnussen sidles through the door and surveys the room. "They're not all from me…"_

John feels his heart skip a beat. "What the - you just _said_ his safety was - "

"I don't know how he breached my security," Mycroft admits with evident annoyance. "I have people working that out. It's not important right now. Watch."

_Mycroft wasn't joking - the audio cuts in and out regularly. On-screen, Magnussen seats himself beside Sherlock's bed, takes his hand between his own - a gesture meant to appear sweet, but it's a power play: I own you._ _The pleasant beeping from the heart rate monitor spirals up into a hurried, nervous rhythm. _

The sudden, biting pain in his palms is the only way John ever even notices that he's balled his hands into tight fists. His nails leave red marks as his breath races in time with Sherlock's own.

"_...I suppose you get to keep them… musician's hands…" Magnussen's lips brush the back of Sherlock's hand as the detective's breath wheezes rapidly. He's painfully aware of what is happening, but too weak to defend himself or even speak. His eyelids flutter and he just barely manages to summon the strength to pull his hand away. _

He can't watch any more of this. Despite the poor quality of the sound, he can see and hear Sherlock's respiration and heart rates racing, can see the struggle in the twitch of muscles that his body is too weak to use. Magnussen is touching him, demonstrating an animal possessiveness, and Sherlock is powerless to stop it. "No," John growls, turning for the door, "_no - _"

"It's not live," Mycroft reminds him, folding his hands.

"_I will fucking - "_

"Enough. Watch to the end."

"I can't - "

"Doctor Watson!"

John scrapes together his military bearing and forces himself to turn around and face the screen, watches as Magnussen strokes Sherlock's arm, and feels as though he's watching something much more graphic and disgusting than its outward appearance. It's meant to be that way. He knew he was being watched. This was for _their_ benefit, John thinks. His eyes go to the timestamp - 07:12:13 on today's date. This morning. Only an hour prior, John had left Sherlock's bedside to go and have a shower and a kip. If only he'd stayed.

"_...left without killing me, which is odd…" Magnussen continues. The audio crackles and sputters as he stands and draws close to Sherlock, whispering something the microphones don't pick up. His face is mere inches from the detective's. John's eyes are on Sherlock; this is only the second or perhaps third time he's ever witnessed fear on that face, but there is no denying it. It's his powerlessness more than Magnussen himself that frightens him, in all likelihood, and he cleaves to consciousness in an effort to gain some control of any sort in the face of this violation. It isn't clear what's being said, but it shakes Sherlock to the core. Then, it's over as quickly as it began, Magnussen straightening, leaving; Sherlock finally losing consciousness as the door closes behind his unwelcome guest's departing back. _

"What did he say to him?" John demands as the video jumps and freezes. He feels himself trembling with anger, but wills his body to be still.

Mycroft keys in another command, and the video switches to live, going by the timestamp, and now Sherlock is asleep, his body slightly turned away from the camera, favouring the wound. A nurse stands at his bedside, charting. The elder Holmes scans the feed and, once satisfied that all is well, turns to John and turns his hands over. "What do you make of it?"

"What do I…?" John splutters. "Jesus, Mycroft, _tell_ me you have someone on - "

"Of course I do. Answer the question."

"He knows who shot your brother. Maybe even orchestrated it. It'd be easier to know if I could hear what was said after the audio went haywire." The masseter muscle in John's jaw tics in irritation. With all of Mycroft's 'resources,' he couldn't manage to find a better microphone for this setup?

"My analysts pieced together what they could. It would seem that it was a threat, of sorts. The context is beyond me, but it seems Sherlock may know his attacker - as does Magnussen. He promised to keep the shooter's identity a secret, presumably for a price. John, I need to know what Sherlock's involvement is with this man. His very life may depend on it."

"You know what I know," John snaps. "Have you been to see him, since - since this?"

Mycroft breaks eye contact. His silence betrays all.

"Has anyone?" John fights down rage. "You know what that was, don't you? And you saw how Sherlock reacted? And you've just left him alone all this time?"

Continued silence from Mycroft.

"You - you're ridiculous. The both of you. Oblivious." The doctor heads for the door. He knows his face is flushed, he knows he is probably limping - stress can do that now and again - but he doesn't care what Mycroft thinks of him right now. He watched his brother being threatened, practically assaulted by that man, and hasn't even looked in on him.

"John," Mycroft says in a warning tone.

"Shut up!" John steps out, pulling the door shut behind him much too hard, and heads straight for the ICU.

* * *

><p><strong>Control Room<strong>

Mycroft doesn't relish lying to John. He doesn't relish having had the audio track edited to keep him from discovering that his own wife is the person who shot his best friend... but he can't have John distracted. He needs information if he's going to protect his brother, and extraneous data would only be a hindrance.

Not that it did much good. John's apparent empathy for Sherlock's discomfort has made this foray rather pointless in the end.

He heaves a sigh, and looks up in time to see Anthea slipping back in. Her gaze is questioning, and Mycroft shakes his head in defeat. "In any case, it's of little consequence now. He won't be able to go meddling in Magnussen's affairs for some time. I'm told there's a lengthy hospital stay and possibly physiotherapy in his future. In the meantime, all there's to do is to close the holes in our security and ensure Magnussen doesn't have the chance to get close again."

"Of course, sir," Anthea replies, already typing notes into her phone.

* * *

><p><strong>ICU Room #3104<strong>

By the time John has checked in with the visitor list and made it to Sherlock's room, the nurse has left and Sherlock is alone again. He's lying slightly on his left side, a pillow under his legs, left arm akimbo. His slow, deep breathing, and the lazy beat of the monitors tell John that he's asleep again. His lunch sits untouched on the tray to the side of the bed, but that's no surprise - the drugs will have made him sleepy and nauseous.

Old habits die hard, and John finds himself first looking over the chart and then the monitors, before rounding the bed to sit beside his friend. He checks the IV line and peeks at the bandage before settling back, crossing one leg over the other.

_How did Magnussen just walk in here_? John stares at the door. Mycroft will have had a security detail posted outside. There was surveillance on the whole ward - John saw evidence of that back in that operations room. And, more importantly, _why_ did he come? Was it simply a power play, as it appeared? What has Sherlock gotten himself into?

Despite the increasing number of unanswered questions, John knows he can't devote any energy to them now - and neither can Sherlock. Even Mycroft knows this - that's why he assaulted John with that display and not his brother.

John is dragged back to the present as Sherlock stirs, his sleep-roughened voice falling through a short staccato groan of pain. "Hey," says John gently, touching his arm lightly. He knows as soon as he does it that it was a mistake, confirmed as Sherlock jerks suddenly, a gasp hissing through his teeth as he tumbles abruptly into consciousness. John knows he remembers his encounter with Magnussen, can see it in his eyes as they open and immediately scan the room. "Sorry," the doctor says sheepishly. He retracts his hand and waits for Sherlock to relax before asking, "How are you feeling?"

The detective is doing his best to hide how shaken he is, but exhaustion and pain have worn down the facade he usually erects in such situations. He spends some time repositioning himself, allowing John to help him ever so slightly, and when he finally gets settled, he nods. "Quite well - in fact, I was thinking of signing myself out," he deadpans in a breathless voice.

Smirking wryly, John gives the monitors another cursory glance, only barely aware of himself mentally noting his friend's colour and affect. "Yes," he plays along, "I'm sure that would go brilliantly." He quickly notices the sweat beading along his friend's brow, and his eyes go to the morphine pump. It's been turned all the way down. Clenching his jaw, he reaches out and turns it up halfway, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him all the time. He leans forward and gives him a firm look. "You can't be doing that."

"Can't be doing_ that_," the detective returns, casting a dark look toward the pump.

The message is mixed - can't be doing it because of his sobriety, or because he'll risk being helpless again if Magnussen returns?

Sherlock helps to answer the question: "I know you know."

John immediately abandons all pretense. "He won't be back," he promises, his voice a rough near-whisper. "Mycroft has security details posted."

"Right." He's not convinced. Sherlock's lips are a thin line, despite that the rest of him is slowly relaxing as the morphine kicks in. He presses his eyelids shut and exhales through his nose.

John has promised himself that he wouldn't ask about the encounter, because Sherlock needs his strength in order to heal, but… the risks are too great. As argumentative as he was with Mycroft, he knows that information is power. Sherlock knew his attacker, and Magnussen knew him too - in what capacity? What kind of danger is he in now, here, incapacitated like this? "What did Magnussen say to you?" John asks without warning, against his better judgment.

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, his eyes still closed, a frown forming between his dark brows. He draws his hands together, carefully skirting the wound. "I don't remember," he says after a moment, seemingly wracking his brain. He opens his eyes and squints at the ceiling. "Something about… the shooter fleeing. I… can't remember. I was…"

"Okay," John stops him, "that's okay. Just… if it comes to you, I need to know."

Grey-green eyes flick over to John. The detective's expression is one of mild curiosity, though it's clear the drugs are dulling his mental faculties.

"Information is power," John says simply, trying and failing to seem casual. White rage still courses through him at the thought of Magnussen sitting here in this chair where he is now, touching a half-insensate Sherlock, threatening him. "I don't… Don't want him coming back here to finish the job, do we?"

"Mm." His eyes fall closed again.

John watches his friend as he drifts off again, unable to fight the strong effects of the morphine. Has he deduced that John has seen what happened, rather than having been told secondhand? Is he telling the truth - does he truly not remember what Magnussen said to him? John thinks back to the video footage. Sherlock was there, he was coherent. The blind panic in his eyes was a clear enough indication of that. But there are a lot of strong drugs in his system and he could have truly forgotten, although... It isn't like him, to forget anything that momentous, that important. Even under the effects of drugs, illness, poison, grievous injury…

"Who shot you?" John whispers, watching the slow rise-and-fall of his chest, listening to the steady beep of the EKG. He imagines Magnussen's sharklike face hovering over Sherlock, so close it almost looked affectionate, a lover moving in for a kiss. The truth was closer to a viper moving in for a kill. John feels his own pulse accelerating at the imagery, and he looks again to the door. He desperately wants Magnussen to come through that threshold, he realises. He longs for him to walk in, just _try_ anything, and see for himself just how ruthless John Watson can be.

"Who are you protecting?" he murmurs, his eyes returning to Sherlock's face as his mind's eye conjures up the ghost of Magnussen hovering there, whispering threats so frightening that even Sherlock Holmes was shaken.

John makes a silent promise. Mycroft's security measures be damned - if Magnussen manages to get in here again, if he manages to get anywhere _near _here, John will end him.

* * *

><p><strong>ICU Room #3104<strong>

Sherlock hovers on the edge of consciousness. He's dimly aware of John's fingers just beside his on top of the scratchy blanket.

"Who shot you?" John's soft voice floats to him through the fog of impending sleep. "Who are you protecting?"

_You_, Sherlock thinks, and he wants to claw his eyes out in frustration. _I'm protecting you._

* * *

><p><em><strong>[END?]<strong>_


	11. Breathing Is Not Boring

**Characters: **John, Sherlock

**POV:** Sherlock

**Prompt:** Sherlock suffers a severe illness and subsequently develops an obsession with John's stethoscope.

**Submitted by:** kink meme

**Author's note: **Friendship, but can be interpreted as pre-slash if you wish.

* * *

><p>Sherlock falls severely ill one gusty October. He doesn't realise what it is at first, of course, just that he feels a little feverish and his chest is congested. The coughing bothers him mainly at night in the beginning, and he assumes he's caught cold. He drugs it away for a few days, taking massive doses of cough suppressants, but it soon becomes clear that it isn't going to resolve itself any time soon.<p>

He hides it from John, for a while. A self-administered sputum culture tells Sherlock what he was beginning to suspect already - pertussis - and he considers disclosing this to John, but then a particularly stressful case comes up involving the murder of a child by his nanny, and Sherlock can't be bothered with his own health.

However, the decision is eventually taken out of his hands.

It's early, too early even for John, and Sherlock is alone in the kitchen. Sleep is elusive, his breathing too laboured when lying down, but getting himself upright hasn't seemed to help much this morning. He's making tea when a particularly violent coughing fit takes him, and he finds himself clinging to the worktop just to stay standing as the edges of his vision darken with each subsequently harder spasm. He drags in a wheezing breath, only to have it taken away in another paroxysm, the cough rumbling through his chest and making an awful barking sound in his throat.

John's voice radiates from somewhere to the left: "You okay?" Then it comes around to the right: "Jesus."

When the spasm finally passes, Sherlock is breathless and dizzy, his lungs burning as though he's just run a marathon. He lets his head rest on the worktop, but John's guiding hands pull him away and he lets them. He allows himself to be steered into a chair and he knows without looking at John's face that he's being closely watched. He stares at the floor, forearms braced on knees, and wills the room to stop spinning.

John's bare feet step out of his line of sight and then back in again, murmuring something to him - instructions, but the rushing sound in his ears hasn't subsided yet and he can't focus on the words. He shakes his head silently and waits for his breath to come back. John steps away again.

When he returns, he drops a black bag on the floor next to Sherlock's chair, and the detective knows he's in trouble. He feels John's cool hands grasping one of his own. "What are you doing?" he asks roughly.

"Your nail beds are blue." He sighs in exasperation. "How long have you been sick, and what have you been taking to pretend you aren't?"

Sherlock drags in a breath. His vision is clearing at last, but the pain in his chest won't let up. "Better part of a week," he admits reluctantly. "Dextromethorphan." He nods toward the packet of Benylin DM sitting abandoned on the worktop.

John groans aloud. Sherlock can't bring himself to look up at him. Then John is releasing his hand, his touch alighting on the detective's neck, his face.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks again.

"Examining you."

Sherlock doesn't have it in him to protest, and submits himself for his flatmate's scrutiny. John is very thorough, which betrays his concern in spite of his calm demeanour. His hands feel for the lymph nodes in his throat and neck, slide downward to palpate his middle for any tender spots. He peers in his throat and eyes, takes his blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. Then he retrieves his stethoscope, and Sherlock looks up just long enough to make a deduction about John's furrowed brow and his barely-detectable hesitation: he knows that this is where most of the bad news will come from.

John places a bracing hand on Sherlock's shoulder and presses the head of the instrument against his back. Sherlock lets out a hiss of discomfort at the cold metal on his fevered skin, but after the initial shock, its coolness is a relief from the pyrexia.

"Sorry," John murmurs at his shoulder. His supporting hand slides to the detective's chest. "Take a deep breath," he instructs. "Slowly."

Exhausted, Sherlock breathes at approximately half his lung capacity in order to avoid another coughing fit.

Alarm is evident in John's voice, despite his efforts to quell it. "More," he urges.

"I can't," rasps Sherlock.

"Can't because you can't, or can't because you won't?"

Annoyed, Sherlock redoubles his effort and drags in a full breath, with exactly the result he expects: he quickly dissolves into a coughing fit, and part of him hopes John feels badly. Indeed, his flatmate packs the offending instrument away and braces him up with a hand on his shoulder, talking him through the paroxysm in words Sherlock doesn't hear over his own coughing and the rushing in his ears.

When it's finally over, John releases his shoulder, hands back his shirt, and pulls a chair up in front of him. "I need to take a culture," he says, "but I think you have whooping cough." He sounds puzzled.

Sherlock pulls his t-shirt back on, shivering. "Correct. A sample taken three days ago confirmed Bordetella pertussis bacterium."

John sighs, but doesn't seem surprised that Sherlock has swabbed himself. Good, he should be used to this type of thing by now. He frowns. "Weren't you vaccinated for pertussis?"

The detective shrugs and gets to his feet, stepping away to retrieve his now-lukewarm cup of tea from the worktop. "At some point." He doesn't see how it is relevant now - he's already ill, so his vaccination status has no bearing on his current illness. While it's true that vaccinated individuals who become sick will usually have a milder form of the disease, the trajectory of his particular case has already begun and won't be predicted from that piece of his history alone.

"At some point," John mutters under his breath. "You need boosters. Have you received any jabs as an adult?"

"I don't know."

Thankfully, John chooses now to stop pushing the issue.

Sherlock sips his tea in silence.

"You'll need antibiotics," John says after a time. Sherlock can tell he is laying down ground rules now. This isn't a briefing, it's a warning. "You'll need to stop working for a while. I'll have no argument to that - until the antibiotics do their job, you are extremely contagious." The doctor exhales and pulls out his mobile, punching in a phone number. "Whooping cough can last for months, I hope you realise that."

* * *

><p>It takes three rounds of antibiotics, thanks to the bacteria's unchecked residence in Sherlock's lungs and the detective's on-again-off-again smoking habit. The two of them fall into a rhythm in the first week. Antibiotics first thing in the morning; John sets an alarm and wakes Sherlock if he needs to at precisely 8am. Then antipyretics and a quick listen to his lungs. This ritual is repeated again at 8pm. Sherlock takes to hiding John's kit for amusement, because he doesn't particularly wish to be examined twice daily by his mother-henning flatmate, but after a while even that becomes boring and the steps that John has insisted upon become routine. By the third week, Sherlock is willingly submitting himself for John's listening ear each morning and night, without being asked, so that it's gotten out of the way and he can get on with things. He obeys his flatmate's isolation rules and stays in the flat - less because he's concerned about breathing on other people and more because he simply hasn't the energy.<p>

After six weeks, his lungs are finally clearing. He can get up and down the stairs without his lips turning blue, at least. His cultures are free of bacteria. The residual cough is expected to continue, but doesn't cause him much bother. Now all that's left is to recoup his losses - lost weight, lost lung strength, lost time.

"Good," John says one evening, listening intently to Sherlock's deep breathing. He presses the stethoscope to his left side one last time and nods in apparent satisfaction. "Good. I'm impressed - you actually listened to me for once."

It was scary not being able to breathe, but Sherlock doesn't mention that bit. He shrugs in response and pulls his shirt back down before settling into his chair to commence with his nightly routine of snarking at the telly.

The next morning, John doesn't wake him. At first, Sherlock is confused, but then he remembers that he's finished his antibiotics, so there's no need. He stretches, coughs his lungs clear, and pads downstairs. He spots John seated on the sofa reading the paper, and helpfully brings him his kit before dropping down next to him.

Blinking, John looks to the bag and then to Sherlock. "Oh. S'alright, Sherlock. You sounded clear enough the past few days, I don't think it's necessary anymore." He flips the page in his newspaper and goes on reading. "Congratulations - you're free."

Sherlock feels strangely disappointed. John's undivided attention lavished on him twice a day every day had become a custom. It was so built into their daily life that, now, Sherlock isn't even sure how to start his day without it.

_Coffee_, he thinks. _Start with coffee. _He glances at the front page of the paper his flatmate is reading. _With a side of murder_.

That consoles him for now.

* * *

><p>Two days and one solved murder later (gardener, simple), Sherlock still feels strange. Mornings are an odd time. John barely looks at him, usually absorbed in tea and toast and the daily news. Nothing he says seems fascinating enough to get his full attention. This isn't new, per se, but it's different from the status quo that the detective became used to while he was ill.<p>

He conducts an experiment.

Six days after John declares him well, Sherlock starts rubbing at his chest intermittently. He clears his throat a few times. Shakes his head to himself now and then. As expected, he feels John watching him when he thinks he isn't looking.

After lunch, John beckons Sherlock to the sofa, sighing, kit in hand. "C'mere, I want to have a look at you."

Feigning indifference, Sherlock looks up briefly and then returns his attention to the microscope. "I'm fine," he says. He pretends to rub his chest absent-mindedly.

"No. You've been doing _that_ all day. If your chest is hurting, it could be a secondary infection from leftover fluid in your lungs." John's stethoscope is hanging round his neck now.

"It doesn't."

"Doesn't what?"

"Hurt." He fiddles with the focus dials.

John exhales noisily. "Humour me."

Sherlock feels a little thrill from tricking John. This is almost as good as making a show out of detective work, except so much easier. No, John isn't calling him brilliant or admiring his deductive reasoning, but he is completely focused on him in a different way and for the moment it is satisfying enough. He rolls his eyes dramatically and crosses the room to sit on the sofa.

Humming gratefully, John sits beside him and slides the head of the instrument up the back of his shirt. Sherlock shivers slightly as its comforting coolness touches his skin. "Breathe," orders John.

Sherlock knows he won't hear anything, so he simply obeys and lets John listen to several deep breaths, before the doctor removes the earpieces and frowns.

"What kind of a pain is it?" John questions. He pauses, fits the plugs back in, and listens to his heartbeat.

Sherlock shrugs. "Dull, intermittent. I suspect just leftover muscle strain from the pertussis." It's half rooted in truth. He does have intermittent muscle pain - but it's hardly bothersome.

"Hmm." John puts the stethoscope away. "Keep an eye on it, anyway. But your lungs sound good."

The detective retreats back to his microscope.

* * *

><p>Another experiment yields similar results. A string of exaggerated coughs throughout the course of a day results in John dragging him to the living room to check his lungs again. Sherlock protests just enough to seem normal, and allows himself to be steered to the sofa when he's taken by an <em>actual<em> coughing fit and can't do much else anyway.

When he's recovered, John fits the stethoscope and listens through Sherlock's Oxford shirt for a few breaths.

"I'm fine," the detective offers, shivering under the chilly weight on his back.

John looks unconvinced. "You're shivering," he observes. "Deep breath."

Sherlock sighs obediently. "It's the dead of winter and you've made me take off my dressing gown," he points out.

"Mm," John hums. "Fair point."

The detective kneads his chest absently, which prompts John to listen there, too. Sherlock feels he's won a little game.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's final experiment is rather bold. There's a snowstorm outside and, predictably, the detective is bored to tears. John is reading a book beside the fire when Sherlock stalks over to him, stethoscope in hand, and sits beside him, holding the instrument out to his flatmate.<p>

Lowering his book, John frowns at Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

The detective is silent for a moment. "Would you…"

John takes the stethoscope out of his hands and his frown deepens. "Er - are you not feeling well?" He sets his book aside and leans forward, eyes scanning the detective's face. "Listen, if you're worried about getting sick again, you should know that I've only been trying to be cautious…"

Sherlock gives him a pleading look.

Shaking his head, John fits the stethoscope's plugs into his ears and leans forward, pressing the disc against his friend's back and listening attentively. He still wears the same frown, his eyes darting to Sherlock's face a few times, furtively.

They are silent aside from John's quiet instructions.

After a few minutes, John sets the instrument aside and fixes Sherlock with a level gaze. "All fine," he announces. "Unless there's something you'd like to tell me."

The detective meets the doctor's eyes. He wonders what John thinks he knows, but he can't read him. John is doing fairly well at controlling his features. Maybe that's because he started playing poker with Stamford twice a week - a fact Sherlock deduces from his shirt cuff.

John gives him a long look, his poker face slips slightly, and Sherlock detects suspicion.

* * *

><p>Sherlock realises it's rather unfair to be tricking John into auscultating him all the time, and he's thinking about stopping, when an accidental plunge into an icy lake during a suspect chase causes him to become ill for real. His immune system is still weak from the pertussis; the exposure to all the bacteria in the lake, as well as the extremely chilly weather, cause Sherlock to develop a terrible cold. The residual cough from his previous illness ramps up uncomfortably and brings a raging fever with it, and Sherlock is laid out flat within twenty-four hours of his little swim.<p>

Through the delirium of a forty-degree fever, Sherlock feels the press of a body against him where he lies on the sofa and knows that John is there. He doesn't open his eyes, however, because the light from the fire will only worsen his headache, and he simply can't abide any more pain than he's already in. From above, John's voice asks in quiet tones if he can sit up, and Sherlock only shakes his head and buries his face deeper into the cushions.

John's hands are nice and cool. Sherlock can feel them pressing gently at his abdomen, and then the lymph nodes in his throat. Shockingly, he doesn't balk at this invasion of his privacy - not this time, because any relief from the fire of the fever is good. Shortly, John's hands leave him, and then he feels his sweat-dampened t-shirt being tugged on. A moment later, the cool, taut diaphragm of the stethoscope touches his back, so cold it hurts despite that John was just rubbing it between his palms a moment ago.

"Easy," John whispers.

Sherlock relaxes and allows his flatmate to listen to his ragged breathing, eyes still shut tightly, one arm thrown up over his eyes. He focuses on the sensation of the cold disc moving over his back for a few moments, and it's a welcome distraction from the body aches and the chills. Then it's over and John is starting to move away, but Sherlock's arm shoots out and his fingers curl around his wrist, pulling him back in until the head of the stethoscope rests against his ribcage again. He sighs and relaxes beneath it.

* * *

><p>The chest infection has Sherlock laid up for a solid week. He and John haven't talked about what's gone on these last several weeks, and he thinks that's probably for the best, but one morning Sherlock walks in from an errand (case, theft, probably the maid) to John saying, "Oh, hey. Before I forget - I left something on your bed for you." He's getting on his coat as Sherlock is stepping out of his own. "And I'm going to Tesco to get the milk since you clearly didn't. Do you need anything?"<p>

Frowning, Sherlock shakes his head, wondering what John could possibly want to give him that he couldn't have just handed him here.

"Right then. I'll just be a minute."

The door shuts behind John and curiosity propels Sherlock to his room.

There's a book-sized gift-wrapped box sitting on his bed, and Sherlock rips the paper open.

Inside, curled inside a clear plastic box, is a dark sapphire-coloured stethoscope.


	12. Role Reversal

**Characters: **John, Sherlock

**POV: **Sherlock

**Prompt: **John is injured and has to talk Sherlock through basic care.

**Submitted by:** Arowen13

* * *

><p>"It <em>is<em> a lot of blood."

"It's not that much, Sherlock."

"How can you tell?"

"_Doctor_, that's how. I need you to focus."

Sherlock obeys. He focuses on John's face, which is pale and sweating. He focuses on John's pulse, which seems much too rapid. He focuses on the wound in the sinew of John's left shoulder, which is bleeding a lot but apparently not that much.

John takes a few deep breaths and reaches for Sherlock with his good arm. "Help me up."

Of course, Sherlock does this, even going so far as to sling an arm around John's waist when his face whitens upon straightening to his full height. He assesses him quickly, and though his eye is not trained in the medical arts insomuch as John's, he can see that the situation is a bit not good. "We should go to hospital," he concludes. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson call a cab."

"No," John says, tightening his grip on the back of his flatmate's shirt. "Not that bad. Go. That way."

Frowning, Sherlock hesitates. "You've lost a considerable amount of blood. You are sweating and shaking, and your pulse is extremely fast. I feel that the extent of the injury is beyond my scope of - "

"Because it bloody hurts!" John snaps. "And yes, it's beyond your scope of expertise, but I'm going to talk you through it. Go. Washroom. Don't let go."

The detective rather doubts John's assessment of the situation as _not that bad_, but decides that the chances are great that John will injure himself further if Sherlock tries to force him to go to A&E. The chances are slightly less so if Sherlock simply performs whatever care is needed now, and then persuades him to go later, when he's feeling more agreeable. However: "I don't understand _why_ we aren't going to A&E. You are guaranteed to receive better care there than in our washroom. And it is likely to be cleaner. Somewhat."

They pause on the threshold of the bathroom.

"Are there any experiments going on in here?" John asks.

"No," Sherlock replies automatically. He feels John's disbelieving eye on him and gives his question another thought. "All of my experiments are in the kitchen presently."

"Fine. Good. Kit in the cupboard," John grates.

Sherlock considers pointing out that he really ought to be more specific, as this is a semi-emergent situation and time is of the utmost importance, but he quickly calculates that it would probably take him longer to say it than to just start opening cupboards until he finds the bag. He turns out to be correct, since it is in the second cupboard he looks in, within easy reach of the threshold. Still, he files away this piece of data to educate John with later.

John grunts as he takes the bag from Sherlock and starts going through it with one hand. He pulls out alcohol, gauze, lidocaine, syringe, and forceps.

Swallowing hard, Sherlock watches him lay these things out carefully on the bathroom counter. He hasn't studied enough of medicine to be remotely qualified to do this - truth be told, the only medicine he has studied has been in the fields of virology and toxicology. He knows very little about trauma care. "It would really be better to go - "

"Shaddup." John shrugs out of his shirt and gingerly starts loading the syringe. "This is very simple. You're going to inject a little bit of lidocaine, remove the hook from the wound - _carefully_ - and then slap a bandage on. A trained monkey could do this."

"I very much doubt that." The detective takes the proffered syringe and inspects the wound. "This is a strange role reversal."

"I agree."

"Usually I would not have to tell you not to chase after a man wielding a makeshift harpoon gun whilst you are yourself unarmed."

Craning his neck to look at the wound, John gives a strangled chuckle. "I was bored," he says, and though the comment meant to be ironic, Sherlock suspects it is somewhat true. "Okay. Now. One-fourth of that syringe per quadrant. Just inside the margins of the wound. Go." He sets his jaw.

Sherlock steals a glance at his patient's face. John is pale and sweating and tense. He wants done with it, the detective realises. Too much time spent in hospitals and veteran convalescent homes has made him loathe to enter another one when avoidable. At least as the patient, in any case. He would have spent a lot of time recovering, after Afghanistan - the bullet wound, the PTSD.

The detective nods his understanding, though John probably has no idea that he's just read him like a book, and sticks the syringe between his teeth for a moment so that he can remove his coat. In an uncharacteristic moment of carelessness, he lets it fall to the floor, then takes the syringe between steady fingers again and presses John back against the mirror so that he can see better. "Ready?"

Wordlessly, John nods.

Sherlock sinks the needle into the torn flesh just as John had said - four quadrants. The doctor sucks in a breath quickly but is silent, pressing himself back into the mirror and struggling to remain still. "Don't hold your breath," Sherlock warns as he finishes the last two sticks.

Obediently, John lets his breath out in a groan. His eyes are squeezed shut. The lidocaine stings, Sherlock knows. John's stuck it into him enough times.

Sherlock waits.

An agonising minute later, John starts to relax, his breath coming easier and his posture losing its rigidity. Carefully, he probes the area with a finger, checking to see if it is fully numb. It must be, because he gives the hook an experimental wiggle.

"Let me do that," the detective cuts in, pulling John's hand away.

"It should slide right out, but you have to pull it down and out, swinging it in the direction of the blade. Understand?"

"Yes."

"It'll bleed a lot after that. Put pressure on it til it stops." He glances down at the kit. "Put gloves on."

Rolling his eyes at the fact John thinks he needs to be told, Sherlock snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves. They're meant for John and therefore slightly too small for his longer hands, but they'll do. It's really mostly for traction anyway, so that he doesn't slip and cut himself on the blade or drive the thing further into John's shoulder. "Ready?" he asks again.

John blows out a breath. "Ready."

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock pulls on the free edge of the miniature harpoon tip, letting it guide him directionally. It eases out with a sickening wet sound, as he pulls down, out, and up. Then, just as John warned, blood begins to pour from within the wound anew. Quickly, he packs gauze against the slice and presses down, hard. Beneath his hands, John squirms slightly - the lidocaine will have only done so much to numb the surface tissues, and the damaged muscle underneath is tender. "Sorry."

John barks a laugh, but it ends in a groan and a whine. "Sounds funny coming from you."

The detective frowns as his brain automatically pulls up the catalogues of every time he's ever said _Sorry_ to John Watson. There's a sizeable number. There isn't time to dwell on it, though, because John is looking very white and tipping his head back against the mirror. His eyes are closed. Sherlock taps his cheek with his free hand and says, "Don't."

"It's fine," John replies without moving. "_I'm_ the doctor, remember?"

"There is a saying about doctors being bad patients."

"It's not a rule. Let me look." He lifts his head.

Sherlock carefully peels away the wad of gauze and they both peer underneath.

"Sutures?" the detective asks, with both trepidation and interest. He's never put sutures in a real, live human being before - a cadaver, once, but that's it. He could do with the practise, but he's not keen on scarring John's shoulder for life.

John shakes his head slowly. "No, it's slowing down. Pressure again." He relaxes back against the mirror once more.

"You… look… unwell," Sherlock offers with some uncertainty. He doesn't have John's eye for these things; he just knows that his flatmate isn't supposed to be that particular shade of grey, and that his breathing isn't supposed to be quite that fast.

Silently, John reaches over with his right hand and covers Sherlock's with it, pushing harder into the wound.

The detective takes the hint and concentrates on his task. John's hand falls into his lap and his eyes slide shut. His too-fast breathing is the only audible sound for a while, until Sherlock takes it upon himself to have a look under the gauze again after a few minutes. The bleeding has slowed and nearly stopped, and the wound itself doesn't look as bad as he had thought. With the field cleared of most of the blood, he can see that it isn't terribly deep. It had seemed a lot worse before. Sherlock sighs in relief and discards the gauze.

Having watched John work too many times to count, Sherlock is able to fashion an appropriate dressing for the wound. He slathers an antibiotic ointment onto some gauze, which he then packs onto the surface of the wound before securing it with medical tape. When he is finished, he notices John's eyes are open and he is watching him attentively.

"Got pretty good at that," the doctor says. Some colour has returned to his face and Sherlock concludes that his pallor was due to pain and exhaustion rather than blood loss.

"I learned from the best."

A small smirk pulls the corner of John's mouth upward. "Arse-kissing not necessary."

Carefully, the detective helps John peel himself away from the mirror and hop down off the worktop. He sways and lists to the side, and Sherlock throws an arm around his waist, stumbling under the sudden weight.

"Sorry," John mumbles. "Tired."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Blood loss," he offers.

"I'm _fine_," John stresses again. "I can quantify blood loss quite well, thank you. Be a poor excuse for a doctor if I couldn't." He extricates himself from his flatmate's grasp and heads for the door. "I'm going to bed," he announces.

Sherlock is somewhat crestfallen. "The case isn't closed yet. There's still a thief on the loose. One who shot you with a harpoon gun, I might add, in the event you've forgotten."

"I've earned a break," is all John says before disappearing down the hall.

Not a very complete role reversal, Sherlock thinks, if John is giving up for the night because of a little flesh wound like that.


End file.
